Or have we just begun [Balthier/Ashe; PG]
Title: Or have we just begun
Author: chaineddove
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters/Pairing: Balthier/Ashe with brief cameos by everyone else
Wordcount: 3,221
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd have made this happen sometime during the course of the game. Needless to say, they're not mine.
Author’s Notes: A brief look at what might have happened after. Includes Fran being all-knowing and Vaan being... all-ignorant. Otherwise known as "the pirate and the prissy prissy princess get their act together." A birthday present for aoyagi, my best friend in the whole world. Hope you enjoy it, dear! Named after a lyric in the Fray song I was listening to as I wrote it - because I'm terrible at titles and no one volunteered something better *lol*
"All we know is distance
We’re close and then we run
Kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one
But this is how the story ends
Or have we just begun..."
-Where the Story Ends, The Fray
***
She has spent a fair deal of time thinking since everything ended. One might assume that running her country and cobbling together a government of ragtag rebels would take all her time; she has certainly spent enough sleepless nights trying to make sense of the ruins Vayne has left her. It is true, perhaps, that for the first while she had no time to think, but as things have settled down, the inconvenient small voice at the back of her mind has grown relentlessly stronger and she has not been able to silence it. Little things remind her: the glint of the sun off the ships in the sky when she stands on her balcony, the distant gunshots of drilling artillery, the light emptiness of her hand.
She talks with her hands sometimes, to illustrate a point, to punctuate. Occasionally she catches a glimpse of her bare finger and stops, just for a moment, foolishly wondering if things could have turned out some other way. She gave Rasler a ring once, when they were young and optimistic and naive; so little time has passed, really, but sometimes she catches herself thinking that she misses the ring more than she misses her husband. The loss of Rasler, which has motivated her for years, is irrevocably healing in her heart; she will always have the scars to show for it, but she is no longer brought to tears at the thought of him, not even when she lies alone in the dark feeling like the world she has reclaimed is far too large to navigate by herself.
She thinks about the ring and tries not to think about the person who took it from her and wonders if that might have been when the pain eased, a little bit, letting her do what had to be done. Her burdens had seemed too heavy to bear at that time; she never would have said it in so many words, but there was a relief in being able to let go of even one. She had used her anger - that scoundrel, that shameless cur - to pull herself along; somewhere along the line she had stopped being angry, but the storm had passed. He had not worn it to taunt her, or at least she didn’t think he had; she had seen once or twice a glimmer peeking from under his immaculate white collar that might have been the sun glinting off a chain - Penelo had commented once that she thought he was wearing the ring around his neck, but the thought brought about so many contradictory emotions that Ashe had pushed it forcibly away, concentrating on simpler things like redeeming the honor of Dalmasca and regaining her crown.
She has seen Penelo once or twice, although their lives seem to have little in common now; the younger girl is trying her best to keep them all unified, but it is a lost cause. They have nothing to say to each other and Ashe refuses to wallow in the comfort of war stories the way some do; there is no sense in looking to the past when there is a future to be built. She avoids conversations that begin with do you remember when because nostalgia is weak and foolish - it feels shameful to be nostalgic for a time when her world was in shambles - but occasionally Penelo does get through to her, and she does remember when, whether she will admit it or no.
Do you remember when Vaan asked Fran how old she was? He’s such an idiot! I really thought she might shoot him then and there, that look on her face, I couldn’t believe it...
Do you remember when it rained in the Westersand, and there was that flood that came out of nowhere, and Basch lost his hammer in the torrent and wrestled that wolf bare-handed...
Do you remember when we were all so tired and Fran fell off her chocobo and tried to make it look like she’d done it on purpose, except she had twigs in her hair and...
Do you remember when Balthier...
Despite herself, she remembers.
She doesn’t like thinking about him; fortunately, no one except Penelo is eager to bring him up in her company. Basch is, the thinks, a little relieved not to have him around; it is easier for him to maintain his stoic attitude without someone needling at him, and no one else dares. Larsa is too polite to say anything when they meet on state business, though he does wear a certain veiled look sometimes and she wonders what he is not saying. She has not seen Vaan since they all parted ways - he is too busy playing sky pirate to be bothered, and she is happy enough to let him, especially since Penelo says he rarely talks about anything but the ship he has inherited, and Ashe does not want to think about the ship. They are the only ones who were there at the time of her final outburst and thus the only ones who suspect, perhaps, what it might have meant. To everyone else, he is only a fugitive of disreputable character, one they believe to be dead, besides.
She does not believe he is dead.
She tries to tell herself it is because he is too ornery to be dead, too irritating, too cocky. The truth is that she thinks she would be able to feel it if he were, somehow; she doesn’t think she could keep breathing the same way if he were suddenly not there - somewhere - with his arrogant smile and his pompous lace cuffs and her wedding ring on a chain around his neck, lying against his heart. She has convinced herself that she does not need to see him, that she in fact will be better off if she never sees his face again, but that doesn’t change the fact that she knows without a shadow of a doubt that he cannot possibly be dead. Things are well enough as they are without him and she doesn’t need this kind of distraction, but she looks into the brilliant blue of the sky sometimes and she remembers, and she knows he is somewhere out there in the world, although he is probably not thinking of her.
She wonders if it might be easier to think about Rasler - he is most certainly dead, after all, and she has loved him for most of her adult life - but when she summons up memories of him, they bring a comfortable warmth but no searing heat; though she falls asleep diligently remembering her husband, she does not dream of his arms around her. In the darkest hours of the night it is not his phantom form which comforts her, and she is coming to realize that in letting him go in order to concentrate her energies on her quest she has let him go forever; she cannot summon him back now that it is more convenient. Her mind is filled with other, traitorous thoughts.
***
She knows hope and despair are clashing on her face when she receives the letter and the ring falls out of the envelope to lie heavy and meaningful in her hand. Basch also knows, she thinks, seeing the guarded look in his eyes when he at last comes for her; perhaps he has known all along. “Well,” she says, inanely. “I suppose this confirms what we have known all along: that man was too contrary to die.”
“Indeed,” says Basch. They stand and look at each other and she is grateful that he is not pushing the issue at hand but also a little hopeless; in many ways, Basch is the closest person she has left in the world, and if she cannot talk to him, she may as well admit that she will not be able to talk to anyone. “I will wait while you have them ready your things,” Basch says at last. His tone speaks clearly what he does not need to say: he assumes she is going with the same unquestioned ease that he assumes the sun will rise in the east the next day.
She has a country to rule and a sea of responsibilities; they are all barely standing without aid at this point, and she should not be going anywhere, but Basch is right, of course, and she only says, “Yes, thank you. Ring for the page, please - I must convene my council before we depart; there are several things to settle and we have tarried long enough.”
His bow manages to imply that he agrees with her last statement, though perhaps not in the same context. “Well,” she says softly to the blue sky after he is gone, “I suppose we shall see what we shall see.”
***
She is not sure what she expects going into it, but he manages to dash any expectations anyway; he gifts her with a familiar crooked smile and a bow of the head, a greeting among equals although she is queen and he is little more than a tomb raider, whether or not he has been granted the queen’s pardon. “You are looking well, Your Majesty. How good of you to take time out of your schedule to join us.”
“I felt it my responsibility to make sure you would not rob yet another kingdom blind,” she says, irritated by his casual tone, as though nothing has changed. She should not be surprised - of course he hasn’t changed. He wouldn’t, if only to annoy her. After all, he has returned her ring, and with it any claim he may have placed on her; not that she has thought it out in so much detail, but she has always vaguely assumed that his ‘something more valuable’ might have something to do with her and not...
“If they don’t know it’s here, they’ll hardly miss it,” he points out.
“That is a terrible excuse,” she replies curtly, and turns on her heel to find someplace else to be, at least until her roiling emotions have settled. She feels his amused gaze on her back as she retreats to lick her wounds and she hates herself for not speaking her mind; but he has returned the ring, which now hangs on a chain between her breasts, and has asked nothing in return. She thinks that she will never know what she might have offered, had he but asked.
She sits across the fire from Fran, who is watching the flames with a distant look in her eyes, as though she is seeing somewhere else. There is the noise of a scuffle and a laugh from just beyond the reach of the flames - Vaan and Penelo might have grown but they have obviously not grown up. Basch has gone to find meat for dinner. The sky is very large and the stars very bright, which is probably why she feels a prickling in her eyes.
“He has mentioned you often,” Fran says softly, her gaze still elsewhere, and Ashe feels her shoulders stiffen.
“Most likely due to the increased contents of my treasury,” she snaps.
Fran turns to face her, the hint of a smile on her lips, though her expression is inscrutable at the best of times. “I think not,” she says with the finality of an oak rooting deep into the ground; her gaze is sharp and Ashe feels the viera can see though to her core. “Humes,” Fran says at last, and the word is a puzzled sigh.
***
“You don’t wear it,” he comments a few days later; they have stopped for the night under another starry sky and she is doing her best to busy herself with the cook fire while everyone else has dispersed on various errands. She looks up and makes herself meet his eyes. His expression is mildly inquisitive, nothing more.
“Have you come to ask for it back, now that your mystical treasure has proven elusive?” she replies, forcing her voice to be even, conversational with a slight edge of contempt. She wants so badly to hold him in contempt. She wants so badly to have a reason.
“Oh, we’ll find it, Your Majesty, don’t you worry,” he says. She suddenly realizes that she doesn’t think she remembers him ever calling her by her name.
“Why mention it, then?” she queries, her hand unconsciously coming to rest on her bodice; underneath the ring is warming her skin. His eyes follow the motion and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.
“Oh, merely curiosity, of course. I had thought you would be eager to sever our contract after all this time.”
“We had no contract,” she says through gritted teeth; they did, of course. The fact that he acknowledges it after returning the keepsake is enough to tell her exactly how he feels about it. It stings more than her pride to realize she was nothing more than a passing fancy. “I choose not to wear it,” she tells him. “Worry not, there is no debt between us.”
He watches her face for a few moments and she stares fiercely back, giving nothing away, she thinks; yet still his smile grows and he says, “I see.”
“You see what?” she asks cautiously.
“I would apologize, Your Majesty, for misunderstanding your intentions towards me, but then, you must admit you’ve hardly made them known.”
She feels her cheeks burning with shame. “I have no intentions towards you.”
He chuckles and she feels her shame tinged with despair. How low will she sink due to this inconvenience between them, that she is willingly concealing the truth and he is laughing at her because of it? “You are a poor liar, and lying is a dishonorable occupation best left to thieves and pirates,” he informs her.
“I have no other recourse to retain my dignity,” she tells him softly, bitterness sharp and brittle in her voice.
“You could do with a little less,” he says, his eyes very serious. She has to avert her gaze.
“Leave me be,” she murmurs. “You have done enough.”
“I disagree,” he says, but steps away. She feels the increasing distance between them keenly and does her best to focus on the cook pot in front of her as he adds, “I haven’t, but I intend to.” It is both threat and promise; she does not know whether to be relieved or frightened or both.
***
The treasure is more than even he seems to have expected; the glitter of it is intense enough to bring tears to her eyes and she cannot take it all in at once. The others scatter to explore the treasure room, but she cannot quite catch her breath to join them. He is there in front of her suddenly, one hand on her shoulder as if to keep her from running. “I believe I told you we would find it in due time.”
“How fortunate it must be to be always right,” she says. The past few days she has felt on the edge of some precipice; he has been watching her with telling eyes but nothing has happened, and she is beginning to wonder if she has imagined all of this - whatever this is - between them.
“It’s my burden to bear,” he tells her, insufferable and proud as always, but somehow she cannot help her lips curving up in a smile. This is who he is and although it is ridiculous and inappropriate she has come to terms with the fact that she wants him anyway; the pull she feels from him is irresistible and the warmth of his hand sears through her sleeve. She takes a tiny step closer; the minute motion is a labor of desire battling pride.
His other hand comes up to hover just this side of her face, then he tucks something in her hair; she reaches up to feel an intricately jeweled comb. “It suits you,” he compliments easily.
“You must have gone soft,” she says. “I hadn’t thought you were planning on sharing any more of this than forced.”
“I don’t see it that way.” His hand whispers over the comb, over her hair, over her neck. “I consider it an investment.”
Her eyes drift closed and she trembles under the soft, unassuming contact. “Oh, I see. Do you intend to come back for it?”
“It is but a trinket, Your Highness,” he says, and his voice is very close. She wishes he would use her name but she hasn’t enough breath to ask it, and perhaps she hasn’t enough bravery either. “It is yours if you wish it. If you want me to come to you, perhaps you might try asking.”
She takes another step to bring herself into his arms; pride has lost the battle. “Please,” she says, tilting her chin up, hoping this is invitation enough. It has been far too long and she doesn’t entirely remember how to do this - and she doesn’t recall it ever having been so difficult with Rasler.
Just as she wonders if she might bring herself to say something else, there is a jingle of coins and various other things scattering to the floor and Vaan’s voice asks, “Oh, hey, what are you-”
Her eyes shoot open, but before she can step away, the hand on her shoulder tightens, discouraging movement, and the pirate says mildly, “You do have the worst timing, don’t you; go away, we’re busy. If you’d like a detailed explanation, I’ll be glad to provide one sometime later.” He looks bemused rather than irate, and certainly not the least bit embarrassed. She is not willing to crane her neck and see what sort of expression Vaan is wearing.
“Honestly, Vaan,” Penelo’s voice scolds, “are you stupid? Let them have a little privacy, come on, look at what I found over here.” There is more jingling and a shuffling of footsteps.
Before she can sputter out any indignant, humiliating nonsense, she is being pulled close and thoroughly kissed - she has not been kissed this way in years - and she finds it suddenly unimportant whether or not Penelo has managed to drag the hapless Vaan away. She is in a long-abandoned tomb with a view towards stripping it of its riches, she is aiding and abetting criminals - she is kissing a criminal - and enjoying the process thoroughly; somehow the prospect of an audience isn’t so grave after all. She can’t even find it in her to care that said criminal’s hand is well below the appropriate line of her waist as he pulls her even closer. In light of a sudden epiphany she realizes that she cares entirely too much for propriety; she is no innocent young girl to be ashamed of a kiss with a man, particularly a man she has been wanting to kiss, and more, for the better part of a year. The rest, she thinks, will sort itself out.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice a hum against her lips, “that was certainly long overdue.”
She wants to laugh because he is reading her thoughts - again - but instead she nips his lip just a little to encourage him to pay attention and tells him, “You had best make up for lost time.”
Author: chaineddove
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters/Pairing: Balthier/Ashe with brief cameos by everyone else
Wordcount: 3,221
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I'd have made this happen sometime during the course of the game. Needless to say, they're not mine.
Author’s Notes: A brief look at what might have happened after. Includes Fran being all-knowing and Vaan being... all-ignorant. Otherwise known as "the pirate and the prissy prissy princess get their act together." A birthday present for aoyagi, my best friend in the whole world. Hope you enjoy it, dear! Named after a lyric in the Fray song I was listening to as I wrote it - because I'm terrible at titles and no one volunteered something better *lol*
"All we know is distance
We’re close and then we run
Kiss away the difference
I know you hate this one
But this is how the story ends
Or have we just begun..."
-Where the Story Ends, The Fray
***
She has spent a fair deal of time thinking since everything ended. One might assume that running her country and cobbling together a government of ragtag rebels would take all her time; she has certainly spent enough sleepless nights trying to make sense of the ruins Vayne has left her. It is true, perhaps, that for the first while she had no time to think, but as things have settled down, the inconvenient small voice at the back of her mind has grown relentlessly stronger and she has not been able to silence it. Little things remind her: the glint of the sun off the ships in the sky when she stands on her balcony, the distant gunshots of drilling artillery, the light emptiness of her hand.
She talks with her hands sometimes, to illustrate a point, to punctuate. Occasionally she catches a glimpse of her bare finger and stops, just for a moment, foolishly wondering if things could have turned out some other way. She gave Rasler a ring once, when they were young and optimistic and naive; so little time has passed, really, but sometimes she catches herself thinking that she misses the ring more than she misses her husband. The loss of Rasler, which has motivated her for years, is irrevocably healing in her heart; she will always have the scars to show for it, but she is no longer brought to tears at the thought of him, not even when she lies alone in the dark feeling like the world she has reclaimed is far too large to navigate by herself.
She thinks about the ring and tries not to think about the person who took it from her and wonders if that might have been when the pain eased, a little bit, letting her do what had to be done. Her burdens had seemed too heavy to bear at that time; she never would have said it in so many words, but there was a relief in being able to let go of even one. She had used her anger - that scoundrel, that shameless cur - to pull herself along; somewhere along the line she had stopped being angry, but the storm had passed. He had not worn it to taunt her, or at least she didn’t think he had; she had seen once or twice a glimmer peeking from under his immaculate white collar that might have been the sun glinting off a chain - Penelo had commented once that she thought he was wearing the ring around his neck, but the thought brought about so many contradictory emotions that Ashe had pushed it forcibly away, concentrating on simpler things like redeeming the honor of Dalmasca and regaining her crown.
She has seen Penelo once or twice, although their lives seem to have little in common now; the younger girl is trying her best to keep them all unified, but it is a lost cause. They have nothing to say to each other and Ashe refuses to wallow in the comfort of war stories the way some do; there is no sense in looking to the past when there is a future to be built. She avoids conversations that begin with do you remember when because nostalgia is weak and foolish - it feels shameful to be nostalgic for a time when her world was in shambles - but occasionally Penelo does get through to her, and she does remember when, whether she will admit it or no.
Do you remember when Vaan asked Fran how old she was? He’s such an idiot! I really thought she might shoot him then and there, that look on her face, I couldn’t believe it...
Do you remember when it rained in the Westersand, and there was that flood that came out of nowhere, and Basch lost his hammer in the torrent and wrestled that wolf bare-handed...
Do you remember when we were all so tired and Fran fell off her chocobo and tried to make it look like she’d done it on purpose, except she had twigs in her hair and...
Do you remember when Balthier...
Despite herself, she remembers.
She doesn’t like thinking about him; fortunately, no one except Penelo is eager to bring him up in her company. Basch is, the thinks, a little relieved not to have him around; it is easier for him to maintain his stoic attitude without someone needling at him, and no one else dares. Larsa is too polite to say anything when they meet on state business, though he does wear a certain veiled look sometimes and she wonders what he is not saying. She has not seen Vaan since they all parted ways - he is too busy playing sky pirate to be bothered, and she is happy enough to let him, especially since Penelo says he rarely talks about anything but the ship he has inherited, and Ashe does not want to think about the ship. They are the only ones who were there at the time of her final outburst and thus the only ones who suspect, perhaps, what it might have meant. To everyone else, he is only a fugitive of disreputable character, one they believe to be dead, besides.
She does not believe he is dead.
She tries to tell herself it is because he is too ornery to be dead, too irritating, too cocky. The truth is that she thinks she would be able to feel it if he were, somehow; she doesn’t think she could keep breathing the same way if he were suddenly not there - somewhere - with his arrogant smile and his pompous lace cuffs and her wedding ring on a chain around his neck, lying against his heart. She has convinced herself that she does not need to see him, that she in fact will be better off if she never sees his face again, but that doesn’t change the fact that she knows without a shadow of a doubt that he cannot possibly be dead. Things are well enough as they are without him and she doesn’t need this kind of distraction, but she looks into the brilliant blue of the sky sometimes and she remembers, and she knows he is somewhere out there in the world, although he is probably not thinking of her.
She wonders if it might be easier to think about Rasler - he is most certainly dead, after all, and she has loved him for most of her adult life - but when she summons up memories of him, they bring a comfortable warmth but no searing heat; though she falls asleep diligently remembering her husband, she does not dream of his arms around her. In the darkest hours of the night it is not his phantom form which comforts her, and she is coming to realize that in letting him go in order to concentrate her energies on her quest she has let him go forever; she cannot summon him back now that it is more convenient. Her mind is filled with other, traitorous thoughts.
***
She knows hope and despair are clashing on her face when she receives the letter and the ring falls out of the envelope to lie heavy and meaningful in her hand. Basch also knows, she thinks, seeing the guarded look in his eyes when he at last comes for her; perhaps he has known all along. “Well,” she says, inanely. “I suppose this confirms what we have known all along: that man was too contrary to die.”
“Indeed,” says Basch. They stand and look at each other and she is grateful that he is not pushing the issue at hand but also a little hopeless; in many ways, Basch is the closest person she has left in the world, and if she cannot talk to him, she may as well admit that she will not be able to talk to anyone. “I will wait while you have them ready your things,” Basch says at last. His tone speaks clearly what he does not need to say: he assumes she is going with the same unquestioned ease that he assumes the sun will rise in the east the next day.
She has a country to rule and a sea of responsibilities; they are all barely standing without aid at this point, and she should not be going anywhere, but Basch is right, of course, and she only says, “Yes, thank you. Ring for the page, please - I must convene my council before we depart; there are several things to settle and we have tarried long enough.”
His bow manages to imply that he agrees with her last statement, though perhaps not in the same context. “Well,” she says softly to the blue sky after he is gone, “I suppose we shall see what we shall see.”
***
She is not sure what she expects going into it, but he manages to dash any expectations anyway; he gifts her with a familiar crooked smile and a bow of the head, a greeting among equals although she is queen and he is little more than a tomb raider, whether or not he has been granted the queen’s pardon. “You are looking well, Your Majesty. How good of you to take time out of your schedule to join us.”
“I felt it my responsibility to make sure you would not rob yet another kingdom blind,” she says, irritated by his casual tone, as though nothing has changed. She should not be surprised - of course he hasn’t changed. He wouldn’t, if only to annoy her. After all, he has returned her ring, and with it any claim he may have placed on her; not that she has thought it out in so much detail, but she has always vaguely assumed that his ‘something more valuable’ might have something to do with her and not...
“If they don’t know it’s here, they’ll hardly miss it,” he points out.
“That is a terrible excuse,” she replies curtly, and turns on her heel to find someplace else to be, at least until her roiling emotions have settled. She feels his amused gaze on her back as she retreats to lick her wounds and she hates herself for not speaking her mind; but he has returned the ring, which now hangs on a chain between her breasts, and has asked nothing in return. She thinks that she will never know what she might have offered, had he but asked.
She sits across the fire from Fran, who is watching the flames with a distant look in her eyes, as though she is seeing somewhere else. There is the noise of a scuffle and a laugh from just beyond the reach of the flames - Vaan and Penelo might have grown but they have obviously not grown up. Basch has gone to find meat for dinner. The sky is very large and the stars very bright, which is probably why she feels a prickling in her eyes.
“He has mentioned you often,” Fran says softly, her gaze still elsewhere, and Ashe feels her shoulders stiffen.
“Most likely due to the increased contents of my treasury,” she snaps.
Fran turns to face her, the hint of a smile on her lips, though her expression is inscrutable at the best of times. “I think not,” she says with the finality of an oak rooting deep into the ground; her gaze is sharp and Ashe feels the viera can see though to her core. “Humes,” Fran says at last, and the word is a puzzled sigh.
***
“You don’t wear it,” he comments a few days later; they have stopped for the night under another starry sky and she is doing her best to busy herself with the cook fire while everyone else has dispersed on various errands. She looks up and makes herself meet his eyes. His expression is mildly inquisitive, nothing more.
“Have you come to ask for it back, now that your mystical treasure has proven elusive?” she replies, forcing her voice to be even, conversational with a slight edge of contempt. She wants so badly to hold him in contempt. She wants so badly to have a reason.
“Oh, we’ll find it, Your Majesty, don’t you worry,” he says. She suddenly realizes that she doesn’t think she remembers him ever calling her by her name.
“Why mention it, then?” she queries, her hand unconsciously coming to rest on her bodice; underneath the ring is warming her skin. His eyes follow the motion and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.
“Oh, merely curiosity, of course. I had thought you would be eager to sever our contract after all this time.”
“We had no contract,” she says through gritted teeth; they did, of course. The fact that he acknowledges it after returning the keepsake is enough to tell her exactly how he feels about it. It stings more than her pride to realize she was nothing more than a passing fancy. “I choose not to wear it,” she tells him. “Worry not, there is no debt between us.”
He watches her face for a few moments and she stares fiercely back, giving nothing away, she thinks; yet still his smile grows and he says, “I see.”
“You see what?” she asks cautiously.
“I would apologize, Your Majesty, for misunderstanding your intentions towards me, but then, you must admit you’ve hardly made them known.”
She feels her cheeks burning with shame. “I have no intentions towards you.”
He chuckles and she feels her shame tinged with despair. How low will she sink due to this inconvenience between them, that she is willingly concealing the truth and he is laughing at her because of it? “You are a poor liar, and lying is a dishonorable occupation best left to thieves and pirates,” he informs her.
“I have no other recourse to retain my dignity,” she tells him softly, bitterness sharp and brittle in her voice.
“You could do with a little less,” he says, his eyes very serious. She has to avert her gaze.
“Leave me be,” she murmurs. “You have done enough.”
“I disagree,” he says, but steps away. She feels the increasing distance between them keenly and does her best to focus on the cook pot in front of her as he adds, “I haven’t, but I intend to.” It is both threat and promise; she does not know whether to be relieved or frightened or both.
***
The treasure is more than even he seems to have expected; the glitter of it is intense enough to bring tears to her eyes and she cannot take it all in at once. The others scatter to explore the treasure room, but she cannot quite catch her breath to join them. He is there in front of her suddenly, one hand on her shoulder as if to keep her from running. “I believe I told you we would find it in due time.”
“How fortunate it must be to be always right,” she says. The past few days she has felt on the edge of some precipice; he has been watching her with telling eyes but nothing has happened, and she is beginning to wonder if she has imagined all of this - whatever this is - between them.
“It’s my burden to bear,” he tells her, insufferable and proud as always, but somehow she cannot help her lips curving up in a smile. This is who he is and although it is ridiculous and inappropriate she has come to terms with the fact that she wants him anyway; the pull she feels from him is irresistible and the warmth of his hand sears through her sleeve. She takes a tiny step closer; the minute motion is a labor of desire battling pride.
His other hand comes up to hover just this side of her face, then he tucks something in her hair; she reaches up to feel an intricately jeweled comb. “It suits you,” he compliments easily.
“You must have gone soft,” she says. “I hadn’t thought you were planning on sharing any more of this than forced.”
“I don’t see it that way.” His hand whispers over the comb, over her hair, over her neck. “I consider it an investment.”
Her eyes drift closed and she trembles under the soft, unassuming contact. “Oh, I see. Do you intend to come back for it?”
“It is but a trinket, Your Highness,” he says, and his voice is very close. She wishes he would use her name but she hasn’t enough breath to ask it, and perhaps she hasn’t enough bravery either. “It is yours if you wish it. If you want me to come to you, perhaps you might try asking.”
She takes another step to bring herself into his arms; pride has lost the battle. “Please,” she says, tilting her chin up, hoping this is invitation enough. It has been far too long and she doesn’t entirely remember how to do this - and she doesn’t recall it ever having been so difficult with Rasler.
Just as she wonders if she might bring herself to say something else, there is a jingle of coins and various other things scattering to the floor and Vaan’s voice asks, “Oh, hey, what are you-”
Her eyes shoot open, but before she can step away, the hand on her shoulder tightens, discouraging movement, and the pirate says mildly, “You do have the worst timing, don’t you; go away, we’re busy. If you’d like a detailed explanation, I’ll be glad to provide one sometime later.” He looks bemused rather than irate, and certainly not the least bit embarrassed. She is not willing to crane her neck and see what sort of expression Vaan is wearing.
“Honestly, Vaan,” Penelo’s voice scolds, “are you stupid? Let them have a little privacy, come on, look at what I found over here.” There is more jingling and a shuffling of footsteps.
Before she can sputter out any indignant, humiliating nonsense, she is being pulled close and thoroughly kissed - she has not been kissed this way in years - and she finds it suddenly unimportant whether or not Penelo has managed to drag the hapless Vaan away. She is in a long-abandoned tomb with a view towards stripping it of its riches, she is aiding and abetting criminals - she is kissing a criminal - and enjoying the process thoroughly; somehow the prospect of an audience isn’t so grave after all. She can’t even find it in her to care that said criminal’s hand is well below the appropriate line of her waist as he pulls her even closer. In light of a sudden epiphany she realizes that she cares entirely too much for propriety; she is no innocent young girl to be ashamed of a kiss with a man, particularly a man she has been wanting to kiss, and more, for the better part of a year. The rest, she thinks, will sort itself out.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice a hum against her lips, “that was certainly long overdue.”
She wants to laugh because he is reading her thoughts - again - but instead she nips his lip just a little to encourage him to pay attention and tells him, “You had best make up for lost time.”