Pairing: Balthier/Elza, Balthier/Fran
01; Lady Killer
Fuck.
Hazy and groggy, with shirt and back soaked in sweat and (he sniffs) ale, Balthier stumbles out of bed. Gingerly, he extricates himself from mysterious limbs and surveys the room for a discreet exit.
He makes it to the door (nearly there, home-free) and—
Fucking hell.
The lock was jammed.
He wiggles it again (just in case). Nothing. Not even a tumbler loosened. Breathless with panic, he turns around slowly, dreading the view.
The limbs had not moved. Perfectly still and gleaming, golden, they poked out from beneath the woolen blankets. He is half-tempted to ply back the sheets and who it is (what he's done). But then he notices a familiar red jacket slung off a toppled chair.
And it all rushes back to him.
The drinks—the copious liqueurs and mead and mulled wine—and Elza flirting and him flirting back, thinking what harm will it do?
Fucking bleeding hell.
He'd actually killed a woman.
Fran is not amused when he divulges to her his latest exploits. She is livid (masked behind impassive serenity). But he is her partner and therefore obligations.
Buttering a slice of toast, she states plainly: "This is your responsibility."
"Should I…I don't know. Go in and check?"
"You mean to see if she's actually dead."
"No!"—a moment's pause—"Well, yes. What should I do? If she is dead, I mean."
"This is your responsibility," she repeats, glaring at him pointedly.
"Damn it, Fran, you're no help."
"In case you were wondering, Reddas will kill you. If she is."
And his heart plummets like the bite of jam down Fran's throat, squeezed and clenched until it ceases beating.