Sunburns and Silence [Basch, Vossler]
Canon Status: In-game, Yensan Sandsea.
Genre: Angst.
Rating: PG.
Characters: Vossler, Basch.
Pairing: None.
Warnings: Irony mallet. (See also: It's Vossler, duh!)
Notes: Scenes from a Salvation series.
Summary: There is much Vossler is not saying, although he says more to Basch than to anyone else.
"Are you all right?" The voice from behind him startled Vossler, for footsteps made little sound on the soft sand, and his hand was halfway to his sword before he recognized the speaker and relaxed.
"Oh, it's you," he said unnecessarily.
"I," Basch agreed, sitting down beside Vossler with a soft thump. "Are you?"
"Why should I not be?"
"You seemed…distant, earlier, with Her Highness."
Vossler shrugged, cursing Basch for an annoyingly perceptive bastard. "There is much to think on." Truly there was, most of which was not for Basch's ears. "Speaking of Her Highness, why are you not guarding her?"
Basch shrugged in the direction where Ashe sat in the circle of tents, with and yet subtly apart from the other four. The children were laughing, as the pirate Balthier turned meat on a spit over the fire, but Ashe was sober, staring into the flames as though there were answers there to all the questions that drove her so far from home.
"You did not answer my question."
"If something were to happen, I doubt that I could protect her where four could not."
"Pirates to protect a princess, with no profit to be gained thereby?"
"Even pirates may act for another reason than profit," Basch said mildly. "I owe Balthier much, trust most of all."
Basch might not have intended it, but his words felt like a jab, a subtle reminder that a sky pirate had freed and believed Basch on sight, when Vossler had been slow to trust the man who had once been his dearest friend. Guilt made his speech short. "Very well, then."
"You have yet to tell me how you fare," said Basch, and Vossler corrected his earlier curse. Annoyingly perceptive and stubborn bastard.
"Well enough." He would not lie, not to Basch; his old friend deserved better from him. "The heat was somewhat uncomfortable." The term was far from adequate; it had been nearly an hour after sundown before Vossler's armor had cooled to the point where he could remove it without burning himself.
"It was, at that." Basch rubbed at a peeling sunburn, scarlet on his fair skin.
Vossler pulled his hand away. "Stop that; you'll only make it worse." He sometimes forgot that Basch was not Dalmascan born and had not grown up under desert sun. He fished in his tunic for the vial of aloe he (like everyone with any sense who attempted to travel across Dalmasca in the daytime) kept there. "Smear this on it."
"Thank you."
There was much Vossler wanted to say to Basch that evening. He wanted to ask his advice about Archadia's offer, discuss the Princess with him, tell him how good it was to have him back, beg his forgiveness for having left him in Imperial hands for so long. He wanted to say everything he had not been able to say to anyone in over two years.
But he could not. Not yet. Later, after Dalmasca had been restored, there would be time. Time to talk freely again, time to fight for fun rather than survival, time to remember what laughter felt like.
For the moment, there were only two men, sitting in silence amid the Sandsea shadows.
Genre: Angst.
Rating: PG.
Characters: Vossler, Basch.
Pairing: None.
Warnings: Irony mallet. (See also: It's Vossler, duh!)
Notes: Scenes from a Salvation series.
Summary: There is much Vossler is not saying, although he says more to Basch than to anyone else.
"Are you all right?" The voice from behind him startled Vossler, for footsteps made little sound on the soft sand, and his hand was halfway to his sword before he recognized the speaker and relaxed.
"Oh, it's you," he said unnecessarily.
"I," Basch agreed, sitting down beside Vossler with a soft thump. "Are you?"
"Why should I not be?"
"You seemed…distant, earlier, with Her Highness."
Vossler shrugged, cursing Basch for an annoyingly perceptive bastard. "There is much to think on." Truly there was, most of which was not for Basch's ears. "Speaking of Her Highness, why are you not guarding her?"
Basch shrugged in the direction where Ashe sat in the circle of tents, with and yet subtly apart from the other four. The children were laughing, as the pirate Balthier turned meat on a spit over the fire, but Ashe was sober, staring into the flames as though there were answers there to all the questions that drove her so far from home.
"You did not answer my question."
"If something were to happen, I doubt that I could protect her where four could not."
"Pirates to protect a princess, with no profit to be gained thereby?"
"Even pirates may act for another reason than profit," Basch said mildly. "I owe Balthier much, trust most of all."
Basch might not have intended it, but his words felt like a jab, a subtle reminder that a sky pirate had freed and believed Basch on sight, when Vossler had been slow to trust the man who had once been his dearest friend. Guilt made his speech short. "Very well, then."
"You have yet to tell me how you fare," said Basch, and Vossler corrected his earlier curse. Annoyingly perceptive and stubborn bastard.
"Well enough." He would not lie, not to Basch; his old friend deserved better from him. "The heat was somewhat uncomfortable." The term was far from adequate; it had been nearly an hour after sundown before Vossler's armor had cooled to the point where he could remove it without burning himself.
"It was, at that." Basch rubbed at a peeling sunburn, scarlet on his fair skin.
Vossler pulled his hand away. "Stop that; you'll only make it worse." He sometimes forgot that Basch was not Dalmascan born and had not grown up under desert sun. He fished in his tunic for the vial of aloe he (like everyone with any sense who attempted to travel across Dalmasca in the daytime) kept there. "Smear this on it."
"Thank you."
There was much Vossler wanted to say to Basch that evening. He wanted to ask his advice about Archadia's offer, discuss the Princess with him, tell him how good it was to have him back, beg his forgiveness for having left him in Imperial hands for so long. He wanted to say everything he had not been able to say to anyone in over two years.
But he could not. Not yet. Later, after Dalmasca had been restored, there would be time. Time to talk freely again, time to fight for fun rather than survival, time to remember what laughter felt like.
For the moment, there were only two men, sitting in silence amid the Sandsea shadows.