AN: There is no justification for the high lack of fics about this pairing. Though this isn't much, it's a start - and I guess it's more for the purpose of character study, since I need to practice writing with these characters before I can do anything big with them. Either way, enjoy. :D And, beware, for there be spoilers.
Disclaimer - I do not own Fable.
He watched her.
It was dark in the room. Almost. The moonlight, as it spilled in through the window, painted her face against the bed, a silvery tone that mixed in with her chocolate-colored skin. The late night conversations of passing traders, soldiers, and nocturnal townsfolk found their way in from the nearby Bowerstone streets, slipping through the window with the moonlight. Even through those she didn't stir, her chest rising and falling in the soothing rhythm of sleep.
With her so close, he couldn't bring himself to leave, to join the Hero of Brightwall/Prince of Albion – the King now, he reminded himself – and the remaining allies who fought behind him, who all celebrated the victory against the Crawler and honored the memory of Sir Walter Beck while they planned Albion's future, as they shared drinks and stories downstairs. The King's ability to supply the army against the Crawler invasion and yet still keep his promises to the people had been questioned during the recovery after Logan's reign, but the King had found a way, even with the sacrifices they had all been forced to make during the revolution.
He swallowed and remembered his own losses. Swift, the man who had given him the family he never had; Walter, who, whenever help was called for, would be there before the echo died; and, before them, the three brothers he had lost and the parents who were never able to provide him the sense of home he had spent his entire youth looking for. He had lost a lot of things – battles have to be lost before they can be won, his thoughts said, and blood has to be shed before it can be saved – but at least some things, some of the reasons he'd believed in something, had survived all those nightmares.
Albion. Finally adventuring across lands on the other side of the sea. The chance of meeting a real Hero, when all word had said that the last one had died with the previous king, the Hero of Bowerstone.
And her.
He reached forward. His fingers brushed one of her braids, spread out along the pillow. It was soft, clean of the blood and sweat that once caked it, and it was one of the nicest things he'd felt in a while. Ironic, he thought, for she was the leader of the Bowerstone Resistance, and, previous to that, a worker in one of Reaver's factories during her childhood. A person that was independent and strong, not soft. But, at the same time, she was mysterious, yet real. She was bold, yet beautiful. She meant something to him, and yet she was still there, alive, only inches within his reach – even after all those other things had been lost.
"You might want to check up on her," the King had said to him when they had first entered the refurnished pub and she had retreated upstairs without so much as a glance at a mug of ale. "I know she's probably just tired, but still. She's worked as hard as the rest of them in rebuilding the Industrial district. Besides," he added, with a smile on his young face, "you two are close now, right?"
Right?
He wanted to say yes, perhaps share a joke about the matter that would've made the stern soldiers by the door crack into smiles. But, for once, he didn't say anything, because he couldn't find anything to say. All those women he had run into during his stay in Bloodstone could've been described with hundreds of words, ranging from their eyes to their lips to their strong minds and strong thighs, but all those words served no justice when describing her. She was nothing like anything he had ever met on his previous travels. He had flirted with her, bickered with her, fought by her side during the revolution and the Crawler invasion, and he felt something for her far stronger than any woman he had spent the night with.
She was his reason to fight, his reason to travel, his reason to smile and crack jokes, his reason to flirt and bicker and not give a hobbe's arse on what other monsters could climb out of the woodwork and threaten to engulf Albion in darkness. She was his reason to keep moving, even with Swift and Walter gone, and she was his reason to keep being Ben Finn despite how his past might catch up with him or how the world might see him as more of a smuggler than a soldier.
She was his reason to believe.
She was...Page.
She moved.
Ben froze – and he realized how long he had stood over her bed; the moon was an hour's worth into the sky. He quickly composed himself, however, and flashed a grin when Page opened her eyes and looked at him, the moonlight reflecting off his face and his grin that was anything but composed.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her tone was firm and it betrayed the fatigue in her face, a clear sign of the guile she'd always had. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," he said. "His Highness just wanted me to check up on you."
She yawned. "Nothing worth checking up on. I was just tired, that's all." She eyed him. "Why are you grinning like an idiot?"
"Just admiring my reason for everything, darling."
Page studied him.
Then, she smiled.