Final Fantasy XII (Balthier/Fran)
Title: Not Fade Away
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,108
Warnings: Nonsexual nudity, spoilers through the Pharos
Prompt: Passionate desperation/relief - "You know that I would not leave you." Post-Pharos.
Notes: Title shamelessly stolen from Joss Whedon.
The Strahl races ahead of the thick currents of Mist that nip at her heels like many-colored vipers. Her controls shake in Balthier’s hands as they never have before, hard enough to bruise his palms. His fingers ache and redden, but at least in doing so they stiffen around the steering mechanism. He won’t let go. He can’t.
“We’re going to crash!” Vaan shouts, banking hard against the next surge of Mist-the currents thrash against the Strahl’s hull, buffeting her with force enough to send his head reeling. Tendrils of blazing light curl around the glass and batten themselves to it, searching for access to her cabin.
“We aren’t!” Balthier tells Vaan tersely. “Vaan, take her helm. Penelo, give him your aid. I must see to Fran.”
He’s never had such difficulty walking the Strahl’s corridors before. He’s never flown in conditions this averse before, when the skies themselves seem to have turned against him. The Mist seethes and howls for his blood, the echoes of its cry causing the very metal within the ship to ache. His head becomes too well acquainted with the chrome walls leading to Fran’s quarters; the second time they are so introduced, he feels a nasty sting rise above his brow. When he brushes his fingers to it, they come away smeared with red. But he gropes for the handle on Fran’s door and finds it with still-trembling hands.
He wishes his cross to her side was more elegant than the stumble it became when the Strahl listed to the right, but the pain in his knees when he’s jerked most inelegantly to them before her barely registers. Fran’s white hair is soaked with sweat and lies against her neck as though plastered there. Her brow knits itself tightly; Balthier reaches up and smooths out the knots forming there as best he can, though his hands protest the gentle motions at first.
“Shouldn’t you be at the helm?” she asks. Her voice sounds strained, cracked as the remains of the Sun-Cryst littering the top floor at the Pharos.
“Vaan and Penelo can take care of it. The Strahl trusts them. And it’s more important that I’m here,” he adds, most of his usual levity absent from his speech. He brushes his lips to the tip of her claws. They give a limp twitch.
“The storm is fearsome,” she murmurs.
“We’ve been through worse.”
“Have we?” Fran’s eyes open a crack, and she regards him with a steady red gaze.
“We have, and we’ll live to do it again,” he promises her. “You’ve years ahead of you yet.”
“It burns-”She seizes violently, her ears crushed against the walls. Balthier darts forward and restrains her head as best he can. He hopes she can’t feel how his fingers tremble as he holds her. “The air is too thick with it, and its fire will not abate…”
“We’ll be clear of the Mist soon.” He presses a hard kiss to her forehead, licks away the salt beading at her brow. “You’re stronger than this.”
“You think me weakened?” Balthier gladdens to hear the sharp note entering her voice. Her anger might be what’s needed to drive out the clouds of Mist amassing in her veins.
“I think you’re bedridden,” he says.
She lifts an eyebrow briefly-then she spasms again, thrashing against the hard mattress. He climbs on top of her, holds as much of her in place that he can, covers her with breathy kisses barely more substantial than the air around them so she’ll know that he’s there. He’s still there.
“Are you trying to goad me into rising?” she asks.
“Will it work?” Balthier counters.
“It would if my legs felt stronger.”
He drops a kiss to her knees just as the Strahl twists violently in the air, shuddering hard. “I think we’re about to break free of the storm,” he tells her quickly. “Is the Mist’s pressure lessening?”
Fran’s eyes flare a brilliant crimson and then still, clouding over with a creeping whiteness.
“Fran!’ he shouts, not knowing if his words carry over the shrieks of Mist. “Fran!”
Balthier knows more of viera physiology than most hume males do, but it’s not near enough at a time like this. He blows gently into her ears-that often provokes at least a shiver from her, but now he only notices the barest twitch of her eyelids at the gesture. He slides free the catches in her armor and wipes the sweat from her burning skin, tips the stock of Potions in the cask at his side down her throat. But she keeps twitching beneath him, and he realizes that her malady’s something different altogether. The syllables for Esuna burn at his throat as the magick slips through his hands and soaks into Fran’s skin. He thinks her breathing grows deeper after that, but he can’t be sure, and that’s the damnable part.
Wait. If she’s overheated, something to cool her down-that could do the trick. He doesn’t have quite her precision with magicks, but he bears down on the Blizzard spell with as much of his will has he can, only letting the barest thread of power trickle through his palms. Only a hint of coldness to brush against her and bring her to cooling instead of boiling. The frosty breeze teases her flushed cheeks as the redness ebbs from them, and his heartbeat begins to return to normal.
Fran’s pale eyelashes float open once more. “It surged,” she explains weakly. “As the Strahl seized in the sky. The Mist is angry that we have evaded its grasp thus far.”
He’s heartened that she says we, that the Mist has not yet claimed her and will not, if Fran has any say in the matter. “We’ll be quit of this wretched business soon.”
“Balthier!” Vaan shouts. “I think we’re in sight of the shore!”
“Good!” he shouts back. “Keep her headed for the coastline!”
“What about the jagd?”
“There oughtn’t be any jagd too fierce for the Strahl’s new skystone to handle!” he calls back, wishing for a more efficient method of communication, one that will not bruise Fran’s sensitive ears. “I’ll be with you shortly-if you’re certain that you’ve recovered,” Balthier adds to Fran in an undertone.
She cups her palm against his cheek, her smile small. “Once we leave the open water, I will be fine.”
“And we’ll have no more talk of burning Mist and weakness?” she says.
“None,” he promises. “Nor any discussion of you-”
She silences him with a finger pressed to his lip. “You know that I would not leave you.”
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,108
Warnings: Nonsexual nudity, spoilers through the Pharos
Prompt: Passionate desperation/relief - "You know that I would not leave you." Post-Pharos.
Notes: Title shamelessly stolen from Joss Whedon.
The Strahl races ahead of the thick currents of Mist that nip at her heels like many-colored vipers. Her controls shake in Balthier’s hands as they never have before, hard enough to bruise his palms. His fingers ache and redden, but at least in doing so they stiffen around the steering mechanism. He won’t let go. He can’t.
“We’re going to crash!” Vaan shouts, banking hard against the next surge of Mist-the currents thrash against the Strahl’s hull, buffeting her with force enough to send his head reeling. Tendrils of blazing light curl around the glass and batten themselves to it, searching for access to her cabin.
“We aren’t!” Balthier tells Vaan tersely. “Vaan, take her helm. Penelo, give him your aid. I must see to Fran.”
He’s never had such difficulty walking the Strahl’s corridors before. He’s never flown in conditions this averse before, when the skies themselves seem to have turned against him. The Mist seethes and howls for his blood, the echoes of its cry causing the very metal within the ship to ache. His head becomes too well acquainted with the chrome walls leading to Fran’s quarters; the second time they are so introduced, he feels a nasty sting rise above his brow. When he brushes his fingers to it, they come away smeared with red. But he gropes for the handle on Fran’s door and finds it with still-trembling hands.
He wishes his cross to her side was more elegant than the stumble it became when the Strahl listed to the right, but the pain in his knees when he’s jerked most inelegantly to them before her barely registers. Fran’s white hair is soaked with sweat and lies against her neck as though plastered there. Her brow knits itself tightly; Balthier reaches up and smooths out the knots forming there as best he can, though his hands protest the gentle motions at first.
“Shouldn’t you be at the helm?” she asks. Her voice sounds strained, cracked as the remains of the Sun-Cryst littering the top floor at the Pharos.
“Vaan and Penelo can take care of it. The Strahl trusts them. And it’s more important that I’m here,” he adds, most of his usual levity absent from his speech. He brushes his lips to the tip of her claws. They give a limp twitch.
“The storm is fearsome,” she murmurs.
“We’ve been through worse.”
“Have we?” Fran’s eyes open a crack, and she regards him with a steady red gaze.
“We have, and we’ll live to do it again,” he promises her. “You’ve years ahead of you yet.”
“It burns-”She seizes violently, her ears crushed against the walls. Balthier darts forward and restrains her head as best he can. He hopes she can’t feel how his fingers tremble as he holds her. “The air is too thick with it, and its fire will not abate…”
“We’ll be clear of the Mist soon.” He presses a hard kiss to her forehead, licks away the salt beading at her brow. “You’re stronger than this.”
“You think me weakened?” Balthier gladdens to hear the sharp note entering her voice. Her anger might be what’s needed to drive out the clouds of Mist amassing in her veins.
“I think you’re bedridden,” he says.
She lifts an eyebrow briefly-then she spasms again, thrashing against the hard mattress. He climbs on top of her, holds as much of her in place that he can, covers her with breathy kisses barely more substantial than the air around them so she’ll know that he’s there. He’s still there.
“Are you trying to goad me into rising?” she asks.
“Will it work?” Balthier counters.
“It would if my legs felt stronger.”
He drops a kiss to her knees just as the Strahl twists violently in the air, shuddering hard. “I think we’re about to break free of the storm,” he tells her quickly. “Is the Mist’s pressure lessening?”
Fran’s eyes flare a brilliant crimson and then still, clouding over with a creeping whiteness.
“Fran!’ he shouts, not knowing if his words carry over the shrieks of Mist. “Fran!”
Balthier knows more of viera physiology than most hume males do, but it’s not near enough at a time like this. He blows gently into her ears-that often provokes at least a shiver from her, but now he only notices the barest twitch of her eyelids at the gesture. He slides free the catches in her armor and wipes the sweat from her burning skin, tips the stock of Potions in the cask at his side down her throat. But she keeps twitching beneath him, and he realizes that her malady’s something different altogether. The syllables for Esuna burn at his throat as the magick slips through his hands and soaks into Fran’s skin. He thinks her breathing grows deeper after that, but he can’t be sure, and that’s the damnable part.
Wait. If she’s overheated, something to cool her down-that could do the trick. He doesn’t have quite her precision with magicks, but he bears down on the Blizzard spell with as much of his will has he can, only letting the barest thread of power trickle through his palms. Only a hint of coldness to brush against her and bring her to cooling instead of boiling. The frosty breeze teases her flushed cheeks as the redness ebbs from them, and his heartbeat begins to return to normal.
Fran’s pale eyelashes float open once more. “It surged,” she explains weakly. “As the Strahl seized in the sky. The Mist is angry that we have evaded its grasp thus far.”
He’s heartened that she says we, that the Mist has not yet claimed her and will not, if Fran has any say in the matter. “We’ll be quit of this wretched business soon.”
“Balthier!” Vaan shouts. “I think we’re in sight of the shore!”
“Good!” he shouts back. “Keep her headed for the coastline!”
“What about the jagd?”
“There oughtn’t be any jagd too fierce for the Strahl’s new skystone to handle!” he calls back, wishing for a more efficient method of communication, one that will not bruise Fran’s sensitive ears. “I’ll be with you shortly-if you’re certain that you’ve recovered,” Balthier adds to Fran in an undertone.
She cups her palm against his cheek, her smile small. “Once we leave the open water, I will be fine.”
“And we’ll have no more talk of burning Mist and weakness?” she says.
“None,” he promises. “Nor any discussion of you-”
She silences him with a finger pressed to his lip. “You know that I would not leave you.”