Written for 31days
October 30 prompt: you might as well live

Note: These are old fiction that I've just remembered to publish on fanfic net. If you want to read latest updates, see my ficjournal, at manicintentDOTlivejournalDOTcom

Going as planned

The 'Plan', insofar as it involved what Balthier had seen as the 'difficult part', had gone perfectly. Rappelling down the building to the marked window, sneaking through corridors with minimal guard, figuring out how to open the seal on the treasury door? So perfect – textbook thievery perfect. And the Goddess Magicite, more valuable than any crass precious gem, on its own plinth, amongst all that glittered.

After that, things started to go terribly wrong… firstly, bloody firstly, Princes and Princesses were not meant to sneak off on the night of their own engagement parties to find a quiet place to engage in scandalous activities, let alone think of using the bloody treasury (some serious kink, there).

Secondly, calling for the guards was all very well, but acts of bravery regarding tackling pirates to the beautifully tiled ground was not. And Fran reacted very badly to any form of body contact that was any more than a touch (to say the least, kicks, snarls, and body slamming blue-blooded royalty against a chest). And then the Princess had started shrieking her head off, and… Princess definitely shouldn't be as skilled (or more so) in the arts of unarmed combat than their royal paramours.

Still, making for the escape craft in the window – sans the Magicite – had proceeded mostly as planned, avoiding the predictable patrol paths and listening to guards run into their carefully set (but ultimately harmless, really) traps.

The third bloody thing that hadn't gone as planned – the tall, handsome blonde man with the scar just over his left eye, in black and gold dress armor (that should really have been as heavy as it looked), wielding a very sharp sword with an ease that spoke depressingly of expertise, standing right in front of their escape window, an enamel shield with a crest of a stylized desert wolf on the other arm. Looking as though he'd been waiting for them all along, no less.

As pirates went, Balthier was very much against actually killing people to get what he wanted – and besides, a gunshot would announce their location louder than Princesses screaming said heads off – and so he leveled his gun on the knight, hoping that would be sufficient intimidation, and jerked his head. "Move, if you please – we're rather in a hurry."

Fran wasn't so diplomatic – the Viera had notched and shot an arrow at the knight's unprotected head, just as Balthier spoke – but the shield came up with startling speed, and the shaft broke on the gleaming surface.

Thankfully, this was a palace, and as palaces went, there were the usual surprising number of ceremonial decorative weapons mounted on marble walls. Balthier grabbed a longsword with a gorgeous mother-of-pearl hand guard, and advanced warily, his gun held to his side. The knight looked amused, but stayed oddly silent and still – the shield came up to deflect the point of a stab, when Balthier lunged, but the pirate had anticipated this, having fought much of his earlier life in armor-heavy Archadia, dancing clear of the follow-up from the knight's blade, and aiming another stab that sheared over an intricately inlaid shoulder plate – the knight had dodged, but barely.

Balthier parried a disemboweling slice with the barrel of his gun, careful to watch footwork and position – he was unarmored, and faster, but the other man had skill, and time. Still, he supposed, logically, that a different escape strategy could be utilized – he drove the knight back, step by step, in a flurry of slices that glanced over the shield, until the window was free, though his arm was beginning to ache. And without looking back, he growled, "Fran. Go."

"Balthier…"

"Go."

There was a hiss that signified the Viera's intention to argue, then clanking footsteps informed Balthier that the other guards had arrived. A sound at the window and peripheral vision told him that Fran had made good her escape, on the hoverbike – he backed towards the window himself, firing a shot at the knight, careful to miss, knowing that if he jumped out now there was a decent chance that Fran could catch him…

And there was a dull impact in his shoulder, and surprising pain that made him drop his gun in shock. A crossbow bolt? A haft, and blue-painted feathers… as he made his acquaintance with the elaborate mosaic floor, he was aware of shouts and a blade, skidding away from his fingers.

--

He awoke with a blinding headache and a hand that wouldn't move, not to mention a burning pain high on his back. Balthier pried open bleary eyes to note that he was now dressed only in shirt and leather breeches, his weapons were gone, and his right wrist was chained to a bed rail. Bandages, tight across his chest and shoulder. The room smelled of disinfectant and soap. Infirmary. He tried to sit up, then hissed, as the pain worsened, and the ceiling spun. Poison, probably – he told himself, as he slumped onto clean covers. Funny. Was it humane policy to clean up someone before said person was executed? Stealing from the treasury, violence against royalty – that was a capital offence, last he checked, in most monarchial countries.

Voices, a little loud – he wanted to tell them to shut up, and go the hell away, but the nausea overtook his voice – choking and trying to force down bile, the pain from instinctively turning away from too-loud noise, the room again spun, this time into blessed nothing.

--

When he next awoke, the blonde knight was sitting next to his bed and reading a book. A sword was belted to his waist, but otherwise, he was dressed more casually – a crisp blue shirt, brown breeches. Balthier closed his eyes again, but his pretense was noted – there was a soft, surprisingly gentle, "Awake?"

"I trust that's rhetorical," Balthier replied in a rasp, breathing shallowly as his body reminded him in loud, insistent complaints exactly why he should have taken up a safe desk job instead of flamboyantly resorting to sky piracy.

"You're thirsty… I apologize." And he was being carefully helped up by solicitous hands into a half-sitting position, gritting his teeth against the moan of pain as the movement pulled against his wound, and a cold glass of water was pushed against his free hand. When his fingers fumbled, it was held up against his lips, again, and he drank, greedily, the water pure bliss within a parched throat. His vision seemed to improve – he was in a smallish hospital room, no window, one door, sterile and white, bandages and salves stacked together on a low table at the opposite end, his bed against one wall. The knight placed the empty glass on the table, and returned to his seat. "Hungry?"

Balthier was indeed hungry, but pride dictated that water would be the only request he would make today, from his captors. "In most countries, 'tis nurses who take duty with invalids."

"Ah," the knight smiled, a little wryly, "Well. You are not the most popular person in Dalmasca, at the moment, and I felt a guard was necessary."

"How touching. When's the execution?" Balthier asked, flatly. He felt he could grasp the method in this treatment – Fran had escaped, it seemed, and they likely thought he knew where she was. Which was true, but getting him to divulge said location would be an entirely separate issue altogether.

"That's still a question of debate," the knight said, evenly, refusing to take any offense at Balthier's unashamed rudeness. "After their Highnesses recovered from their shock, they were of the gracious opinion that you should be pardoned, seeing as it was a night of celebration, and they did not wish to mar their union with a death. However, several ministers feel otherwise, for deterrence's sake."

"And how long will this debate take?"

" 'Tis already been three days," the knight shrugged. "The council convenes only during customary hours."

"Good Gods." Balthier looked down at his shackled wrist. He had a pick in his boot that could make short work of it, but the boots were gone. "Slow death by boredom, then. By the way, why not simply put me in Nalbina? Saves on manpower."

"Someone who could break into the palace vault could just as easily break out of Nalbina, I should think," the knight said, dryly. "The place is not well-constructed. Dalmasca has a merciful King."

"One more question. How much longer must I listen to your mindless chatter?"

The knight chuckled, and inclined his head, going back to his book. Annoyed at the seemingly boundless patience of the other man, Balthier busied himself testing the shackle, gave up, and closed his eyes.

He refused to wake, when food came.

--

"How long has he not been eating?" Balthier heard a dimly recognizable female voice through the sleepy haze. Time seemed arrested into a stupor of dull images, ever since he had decided to hurry things along by simply refusing to eat – knowing that it was entirely possible, if he submissively ate and drank as his captors intended, that the discussion regarding his freedom would go on more or less indefinitely. And as a bird used to freedom, the idea of indefinite imprisonment was more terrible by far than death.

Female voice. Ah. The Princess. He tried to wake up, but couldn't manage the effort.

"Since he was here," a deep rumble – that was the knight.

"What? And he still breathes? A miracle." Incredulous, male, younger – the Prince.

"I put Enda pills in the water," the knight admitted. "But it will not tide him over for long. Truth to say, if your Highness had not insisted on healing his shoulder, it might not have sufficed for this long."

"He looks terrible." A blessedly cool, soft hand (female) brushed briefly over his brow. "And he's burning up. Rasler, what should we do? The council's still in deliberations. This is beyond cruelty, and Father says his hands are tied. This man can't be older than twenty."

"We have to get him out of here," Rasler – the Prince – said, decisively. "We must find his partner. Viera are rare, in Dalmasca – no doubt it should not be too difficult. If he was willing to sacrifice himself for her, no doubt she would still be trying to rescue him."

"We cannot take her here – she'll be arrested, as well," the Princess said, sounding gratifyingly agitated.

"Basch. Your family home… near the West Gate… do you trust your retainers?"

"Of course," Basch – the Knight – sounded mildly offended. "He should be safe there, 'tis true, and no one should think of searching it."

"Maybe Vossler," the Princess said, dryly, "But I am sure Rasler and I can convince him to turn a blind eye."

"The problem remains how we're supposed to get him out," Prince Rasler said, the voice beginning to echo, as though heard from beneath a well, and try as he might, Balthier lost consciousness.

--

When he next woke, the ground heaved in a nauseous rhythm, and smelled very strongly of bird. Fowl. Chocobo.

Balthier mumbled a protest, trying weakly to move, and his vision swam in a sway of a queasy tilt of dark cobblestones. Night? Restricted movement told him that he was swathed tightly in blankets – strong arms moved over his shoulder and waist, and he was shifted into a warm embrace that smelled vaguely familiar, against hard muscle. He coughed, frowning, but the rocking movement of riding forced him to concentrate his will simply on not throwing up, and eventually he weakened back into sleep.

--

He woke to the harsh glare of sunlight across his eyes and an uncomfortable prickle in his wrists, and panicked at the sight of translucent tubes stuck to both. He winced, as a knee-jerk attempt at yanking them out pulled the odd container of viscous, transparent fluid they had been connected to off the table next to the bed, sending it crashing onto the ground – the glass shattered.

Balthier backed into the corner of the bed, tearing off the tubes and the transparent patches they had been attached to, and realized that he felt far stronger than he had for quite a while; though his legs felt atrophied and numb. Fresh shirt, and breeches – both a little too large for him. A different room – this one smelled faintly of chamomile, and more strongly of lemon – it was luxuriously decorated, with sweeping landscape paintings, a walk-in wardrobe with gorgeous carved ashwood doors, plush carpets, one of which was just about to be ruined by viscous whatever-it-was fluid. A four-poster bed with feather pillows and a soft mattress, light sheets in respect of Rabanastre's temperature. Bookshelves thickly stacked with volumes and scrolls. A desk.

And windows – long windows with filmy curtains, which looked out into the vast blue – abruptly, his eyes stung at the sudden surge of wordless joy that welled within him, simply at the sight of freedom. Balthier felt as though he had been caged forever – he held hands out into the shaft of sunlight, studying the shadows across his knees.

Words from behind the single door to the room – Balthier flinched, and managed to roll, by pure force of will, onto his knees. He was in the midst of dragging himself out of the window – two stories, a short drop to what looked like bushes – when there was a curse behind him, and arms that felt subconsciously familiar were pulling him back. He twisted, snarling, then froze, as fingers gripped his chin in an unbreakable vise, and he was forced to look into the knight's eyes, narrowed in anger and fright. "If I had come up but a moment later…" a growl.

Balthier stared at him, unrepentant and calm – his eyes flickered over to the window again, in an unspoken promise. Left to himself, escape would be his only choice.

"You're still too weak."

Silence.

"We haven't found your partner, though the Viera of the city are being suspiciously evasive."

Silence.

"We've found your airship – the Strahl – but as you arrived legitimately, the moogles are protecting your right to private property – though it's being watched by the guard."

Silence.

"We won't hurt you. You'll be free to go, once you've recovered."

He smirked, then. "When's the execution?"

The knight blinked, then growled. "We…"

"Pulled me out from one cell to another," Balthier interrupted, with a sharp smile. "But at least this one has windows and smells better. Thank you, I suppose."

"I said you would be free to go, once you have recovered." The faintest hint of exasperation. "Sooner, perhaps, if you can tell us where your partner is – she can come here and pick you up."

"I have only your word for the former – and as to the latter, do forgive me if I cannot trust you enough to place the life of my friend in your hands." Balthier said evenly. The knight was warm, and also smelled nice – lavender soap. He pushed at arms that circled his waist – they tightened a little, in warning, then the other man drew back, to sit on the edge of the bed watchfully.

"What would you do if left alone?"

Silence.

A muttered oath. "Would you force me to chain you to the bed?"

"One cage for another. Go ahead."

"Would you eat, at least?"

Balthier smiled.

A sigh. "And to think that the Prince felt the only reason why you weren't eating was because the infirmary was too much like a cell. You'll die, if you keep starving yourself – the solution you just smashed all over my floor can only do so much for so long."

"And I should live, because?"

Exasperation. "What sort of question is that?"

Balthier turned his gaze to the window, and up to the clouds. "What happens when you cage a wild bird, sir Knight?"

"You're not being caged."

Silence.

"Once you can walk, you can go. Your gear is in that chest." A point, at the wall. Irritably, "I suppose it's too much to ask for you to wait until you're actually healthy. Just don't break your neck climbing out of windows. And eat something, for Gods' sake. Agreed?"

Balthier considered this carefully. It was true that he wouldn't get far, if he tried to leave now – and would probably hinder Fran if he fainted on her after he met her at the agreed spot. Not to mention that, weakened as he was at the moment, it would be difficult to throw off pursuit, if he was followed. And he certainly would not be able to fight off any guards around his airship. Besides, instinct told him that this man, at least, did not seem to be the sort to resort to subterfuge. However, Fran's well-being was too important to hinge on mere instinct - still, he supposed that it would only help him, at this point, to regain some strength.

"I'll eat," he said, finally.

--

Regaining his strength was a slow process, and at the beginning he was restricted to soup and gruel, up until his stomach could actually handle solids again. There was a nurse, quiet and efficient and blessedly not the least curious about him nor talkative at all. He slept less as the days passed – sometimes he would wake to see the knight seated in the chair by the bed, pretending to read a book. Curious.

The next time he was actually conscious, he felt he could guess why – impulsively, he reached over and placed fingers on a warm arm, the sleeve rolled to elbows in the heat. The knight actually flinched, startled, then dropped his gaze to curled fingers. "Do you need something?"

"What are you reading?"

"Ah… a volume of prose, from one of Rabanastre's great living authors." The knight handed the book over – Balthier glanced cursorily through it. Something about life and meaning on the desert. Fascinating. He gave it back.

"What's your name?"

"I beg your pardon. I am Basch."

Balthier frowned – the name sounded familiar – then recalled almost forgotten lessons in a stuffy library, in a past life. "General Basch."

Basch inclined his head. "And your name is Balthier."

Balthier nodded, warily. Of course – Basch had heard Fran say so herself, in the palace. Thankfully, however, the name didn't seem to strike a chord – he proceeded with the next leg of his plan. "Please send my thanks to Prince Rasler and Princess Ashe."

"I will." Basch seemed slightly confused as to why he was suddenly so friendly – Balthier had said nary a word, since agreeing to eat.

Balthier looked down at his hands. "How long have I been… since the palace?"

"It's been about two months."

He grimaced. Fran would have panicked long ago, likely. "Ah. May I have pen and paper, please?"

Basch stared at him, for a moment, then nodded, and walked out of the room, leaving the book on the chair. Balthier looked out of the window, debating what to tell Fran – the whole situation still smelled too much like a trap – he was too jaded to believe in goodwill. On the other hand, she was very unlikely to leave just on his say so – better to assure her that he was well; take that much off her mind, at least.

When quill, inkbottle, a board and parchment arrived, he wrote, a little unsteadily, in their private code – that would appear to all others like a child's doggerel – and handed the paper to Basch. "Can you leave that with the moogle Avia in the aerodrome?"

"I'll see to it."

--

He was careful now to always seem friendly – but not too friendly, that would have been suspicious – whenever the knight came along, as though grateful for the company, willing to discuss any number of topics, but gratified that Basch seemed as intelligent as he was famed to be. Conversation, even when about the migratory habits of native creatures, was never boring.

A curt, coded message from Fran arrived via Avia one of the days – Will find you, wait for me. He had thought as much. The knight didn't ask, when he balled up the paper and handed it back. After that, Balthier was also careful to always touch the other man, brushing arm, shoulder, thigh, always seemingly accidentally or innocently, whenever talking to him – he could see the other man's response in his eyes, and the added tension whenever he leaned close.

Too easy, perhaps. And for a necessary step – well, at least Basch was handsome.

--

Then once, when his hand lingered a little too long than was politely necessary, on a knee, Basch caught his hand, and said, in a low, strained voice, "Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do, Balthier."

"What?"

"You don't have to feel that you need to buy something you already have," Basch said, his eyes steely.

"Call it insurance, then," Balthier said, and smiled – catlike, with no humor. Caught, and unashamed.

"It's not necessary." His hand was placed very firmly on the bed.

"But you want me." Balthier observed, simply. Basch stared at him, his eyes haunted – long enough for the sky pirate to actually feel a little sorry – then, abruptly, the knight rolled to his feet and stalked out of the room.

--

The next few days were utterly boring. He received no visitors outside of the silent nurse, and the books in the shelves were absolutely dry. On the other hand, he could walk for short bursts without stumbling, and his gear – including gun, and ammunition – were indeed in the unlocked chest.

Supporting himself against the wall, he managed to explore the wing of the villa he was in – it was large, populated with silent servants (or at least, silent around him), and felt almost unlived-in. A few wrong turns and he had no bloody idea where he was – worse, he could feel dizziness setting in. Knowing he likely wouldn't be able to find his way back to his room before he lost consciousness, Balthier opened the nearest door – a small study, with a large, comfortable chair, curled up, and fell asleep.

He was woken up by warm hands stroking his cheek and arm – he blinked, blearily, to see Basch seated on the thick carpet on the ground, next to the chair, and he stitched his brow together, as his back cramped. Ah, right. "Sorry. I got a little lost."

Basch nodded. His jaw was tight – a muscle in it twitched. "I… I thought you'd left."

"What, without my gun?" Balthier drawled.

Basch looked away, then down, at the carpet. "I'll help you back."

Balthier supposed it was now or never – he slipped off the chair, and into Basch's lap, straddling muscular thighs, tilting the firm jaw up, and brushing lips against surprisingly soft ones until they parted, invitingly. The frustrated little moan was gratifying and oddly arousing – he began to purr, as he rubbed himself against the other man.

The carpet was ruined.

--

Getting used to waking up, in a different, larger bed, with a mumbling warm body flush against his back, was surprisingly easier than he had thought, and far more pleasant than he could have imagined. Even the stickiness, and the scent of sex – were more than worth sleepy "Good morning"s and somewhat uncoordinated half-awake kisses. And the sex itself was good, getting better. Balthier wondered if he was simply getting himself from one problem into a wholly different but easily as complicated one.

At least he could walk, now. But it seemed that each day he got stronger, he busied himself finding excuses not to leave. There was still no word out on the pardon, apparently – his disappearance had seen to it – and his bounty was larger, now. Amusing, but inconvenient.

Still caged, but more dangerously, he told himself. This cage he actually liked – the worst sort of cage.

--

One day he was cross-legged on the bed of 'his' room, cleaning his disassembled gun, uncaring of the damage to white sheets, when to his pleasant surprise Fran climbed in through the window. It was lucky that he hadn't been handling the powder magazine, at that point, really. She smiled, in sheer relief, to see him – then frowned, and raked eyes over his thinner frame. "You have been ill-used."

"The starvation was choice," he said, inclining his head, as he reassembled his weapon with practiced efficiency. "It got me out of the palace."

She sniffed. "And you smell of another Hume. The one we met, in the Palace, who stopped us from leaving."

"Well, it is his house," Balthier said mildly, as he walked over to the chest, buckling on the holsters. Fran's arrival had just given him the impetus he needed.

It was a pity she was so perceptive, with a Viera's improved senses. "You know what I mean."

"Also choice." The belts in place, he put on the vest over the borrowed shirt, and picked up his own folded clothing, slinging his gun over his back.

"Oh?" Fran sounded suspicious. "Because if there was force, Balthier, I kill this Hume."

"Choice," he repeated. As much as choice went, in such situations – but it had been pleasant. "Let's go."

--

Fran notched an arrow to her bow instantly, when they saw Basch leaning against the polished side of the Strahl, in the hangar of the aerodrome – Balthier quickly forestalled her with a light touch on her elbow. "Go up first," he said, in a low voice – she stared at him, then skeptically, at Basch, and shrugged, thumbing the controls that lowered the ramp, and dragging the hoverbike up into it. "No heroics this time, I promise."

Balthier waited until Fran had entered the ship, before sticking his thumbs into his belt and looking at Basch – the other man was tense, though his face was carefully blank. Anger was written in the curled fingers at his elbows and impression Balthier got, of a coiled cat.

When it seemed that Basch was content to watch him with an accusing glare, Balthier spoke, his voice neutral. "Thank you for the hospitality, General Ronsenberg. Fare you well."

Basch bowed his head, made a low sound in his throat, and strode over, pulling him against him and claiming a rough kiss, that spoke to Balthier of fear, betrayal, anger, bewilderment, in how hands were curling tightly in his hair and on his hips, the tongue pushing into his mouth without permission. He forced himself not to respond, keeping his hands balled to either side, until at last Basch pulled away with an exhalation of frustration. "So it never meant anything, to you." Wounded.

"Was it supposed to?" he tilted his head.

"You never had to do something like that – I thought you understood," Basch snarled, shaking his head, whirling away, his fists tight at his flanks. "I thought you wanted… that you actually wanted…"

A relationship, Balthier had previously decided, with this man in particular, would be too needlessly complex for a sky pirate's life, and it seemed only affirmed now – even though it hurt to say what was necessary, to open this particular cage and live again the way he wanted to. "Did that matter? After all, you wanted me. Now, if that is all, General…"

"No. No, it's not." And Balthier found himself pushed up against the side of his own ship, and kissed with surprising desperation – although he opened his mouth to thrusting tongues, he kept his hands passively at his sides, closing his eyes and waiting. At the soft, broken, "Balthier…" he nearly caved – he took a deep breath, however, and his lip quirked.

"Done?"

Fists curled in the collar of his borrowed shirt – Basch's eyes were wild, his voice rising. "It never meant anything to you?"

"Let go of him," Fran suddenly said, very calmly – she had approached without any noise at all, and held the tip of a dagger to Basch's neck.

Balthier first reaction to the gleam of pointed metal was to freeze, then he relaxed, and said, blandly, "I wouldn't make any sudden moves, if I were you."

"Answer me." Basch snarled, ignoring the blade – rather foolishly, Balthier thought – Fran was still with controlled anger.

"She's very capable of killing you, General."

"I don't care."

Balthier looked carefully at Basch, then at the dagger, then at Fran, and sighed. "Fran. It's all right. Please." Fran narrowed her eyes, then with ill grace, sheathed the dagger, and went back up into the Strahl – though her posture said that she would certainly be listening for further trouble. "General." He supposed that Basch was owed some truth, at the least, for the hospitality.

"You know my name."

"And so I do. And I also know your rank, and your position as one of the pillars of Dalmasca, and how terribly inconvenient it would be, to get into a relationship with you, especially given my vocation in life. So I'll trouble you to let go of this shirt, and send my regards to the Prince and Princess."

"That's all?" Basch said, disbelievingly. "That's why you ran away?"

"I didn't run away," Balthier corrected, "I merely exercised a previously stated right to leave whenever I wished. Am I correct in assuming that right still stands?"

"Couldn't you have talked to me about this?"

"I am," Balthier pointed out mildly. "And your current reaction is exactly why I did not wish to talk to you about it. Also, what would your people say, to hear that their General has been consorting with sky pirates?"

"I've never cared about that," Basch said, hotly.

"I'm surprised you were promoted so high, then," Balthier drawled. "Now, General, if you'll excuse me…"

"You've evaded my question, since the beginning," Basch growled.

Balthier pushed lightly at his shoulders, distracted, as his ship began to hum – Fran was getting impatient, and the engines were starting. "There's your answer then, for you, if you please."

The wrong thing to say – Basch visibly straightened, his eyes wide with desperate hope. "So it did mean something."

"Either that or I'm not callous enough to be so easily able to break someone's heart," Balthier said flatly, feeling his own hammer in his chest.

Too late, however – Basch's sudden smile was so startlingly beautiful that Balthier forgot that he was supposed to make all due efforts to leave – lips brushed against his forehead. "So. When will you return?"

"What makes you think I'll return?" Balthier asked, cautiously, raising his voice to be heard over the increasing hum of the engines.

"Because you'll have to make reparation for theft."

"Theft?"

"Mm." Another gentle brush of lips, this time against his own – the answer self-evident. Theft of treasure, this time intangible yet no less valuable than the Shard. The sky pirate sighed – his resolve was crumbling.

"Ah. That. Perhaps after the furor over my disappearance has died down."

"And how long will that be?"

"How should I know?"

Basch nibbled at his lower lip, glancing away. "Where will you go?"

"Wherever suits my fancy," Balthier shrugged. At the frown, he amended, a little irritably, "But in a week or so I expect to be in Nabradia."

"Where in Nabradia?"

"Find me," Balthier smirked, when Basch groaned. "If you want your reparation. Otherwise, you can wait for me here, whenever I might come back."

Basch sighed, then tugged one of his rings off a finger, dropping it into one of the pouches on Balthier's hips, when the sky pirate made no move to accept. "Here." The wind from the engines, as the Strahl rose into the air, whipped blonde hair about his cheeks.

"Love tokens already?" Balthier asked, facetiously. Although it was illogical to seem so, the ring felt heavy.

Basch nuzzled his cheek. "A reminder."

"Oh?"

Basch stared at him, evenly. That you belong to me now. As I to you.

Balthier looked up to the ceiling of the hangar, his lip quirking. "See you in Nabradia, General."

-fin-