Author's Note: Rewrite of "Thaw This Frost." This makes me sad, because there's little to no dialogue, and I so love writing dialogue between Ashe and Balthier, for they're both ever so witty and ever so snarky. (Though Balthier is more the champion of wit, while Ashe rules the snark, but they do trade evenly betwixt talents, I must say.) But, it's still good fun, so I've decided it deserves a rewrite.
As for more Balthier/Ashe, YES, I would like to do it, but no, I don't have any ideas, and I'm not committing to more than one-shots right now. Sry!
Final Fantasy X-2 has brainwashed me into thinking all airships are ridiculously huge. I often forget that the Strahl is actually pretty quaint. xD Damn you, Celsius, and your super incredibly large cabin area.
Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy XII, nor any of its respective characters, settings, etc.
"Scent of Sky"
Ashe's fingers were in constant motion: they flattened, they steepled, they wove within and without each other, they curled until the knuckles ran white. Ashe did not know sign language, yet she communicated her uncertainty quite clearly.
The events that led to her decision were hazy – Larsa's appearance and his ill news of Archadia's advancements, a meeting with Basch discussing their very limited options, running briefly into Vaan only to encounter a rude question, another vision of Rasler, a small mental breakdown, a little voice telling her a big one was coming… Regardless, it wouldn't have mattered, not where she was presently. For, indeed, Ashe was sitting, legs primly crossed, fingers fidgeting and palms sweating, in the Strahl, in Balthier's cabin, and, more specifically and sinfully, in his bed.
She raked her teeth over her bottom lip; indecision was never a welcome feeling for Ashe. She so rarely encountered it that dealing with it was out of the question – it was usually just a matter of waiting it out. But this time it seemed the indecision was playing the same game, for it did not falter, not even as she split her lip and the coppery tang of blood nipped at her tongue. The flavor was familiar and just the tiniest bit calming.
"What am I doing here?" she asked herself, tone nothing but a whisper. Voicing her question did little to answer it. It bounced back and forth in her skull, blaring in her ears, blindingly bright behind her eyes. Emotions were bubbling too close to the surface, too fast: doubt, fear, morbid humor that forced her to laugh – at herself.
"How the mighty have fallen."
There was a tugging at her heart, her good sense probably, making an important house call from her head. It told her to get up then, spring to the door and down to her own cabin, where no one would be the wiser. But another part pulled the other way, stronger, yelling over and over, "What then?"
And there was the certainty, for she knew what: she would change into her night clothes, crawl into bed and fall into another empty sleep, with only visions of Rasler to keep her company. But he was not alive, he was a corpse, decaying in a tomb far away, and she feared his supernatural appearances meant her mind was decaying just as steadily. The visions of Rasler did nothing to warm her anymore, as they had in Raithwall's tomb; instead, they turned her veins to ice, spreading frost through her body until she could feel nothing but loss. How many more nights before the frostwork reached her heart? Until a surgeon would have to slice it right out of her chest?
Her eyes went from her hands to her legs to her feet, across the patterned carpet stolen from a palace, up the dressing table to the mirror. Her reflection looked back, her only companion, sad and drooping in the curved glass.
"Why did you go to him?" asked the woman in the mirror, though she appeared more like a girl, lost and confused.
Inside her head, Ashe answered: because she had no place else to go. She could not run to Basch, and be nothing but another burden on his shoulders when they already fell so low. She could not run to Vaan who, despite his loss, at his age simply did not understand the heart of a woman (and at best could only understand that of a rat). She could not run to Fran, whom she knew had no empathy to muster, despite her best intentions. She could not run to Penelo, simply because she did not want the young girl's spirit to be darkened by her own dim one.
Thus, by pure and methodical process of elimination, as one might a suitor or a pet, she chose Balthier – or rather, circumstance forced her to choose Balthier. Perhaps, despite his waxing poetic, he was a slab of grey, with no proper sympathy. But even if he could not relate to anything she had to tell him, he had something no one else on his airship did: as a man, he knew women. And that would have to be enough.
He would know what to say, and it mattered little to Ashe whether his meaning was sincere (which, of course, was a lie, but deluding herself was easier with the girl in the mirror encouraging her so). Or perhaps he would say nothing at all – and quell her fears not with his tongue, but with his lips. She shivered at the thought, but felt a rush of exhilaration; the girl in the mirror blushed and looked away, though neither she nor Ashe were surprised (which was also a lie, but sitting on Balthier's bed, where lies were so often spun, also made it easier).
And if that was his method of treatment, and he did choose to kiss away the demon of doubt inside her…
"Would you forgive yourself?" The girl in the mirror was looking at her again, hands flat on her lap, though trembling terribly. She whispered low, "Would Rasler?"
Ashe shook her head, mimicked by the mirror, knowing it was vain to account for the thoughts of the dead. Rasler was a kind prince and a kind lover; he smiled upon her even now. She knew that should he appear before her, he would wear the same serene, silent smile – always dulcet, always dull. The love of a friend would twinkle in his white eyes, not the love of a husband.
"For your happiness," he would say, "I would give anything."
The girl in the mirror shook her head, and Ashe was not sure who was mirroring who.
Her thoughts turned down a different lane, Rasler's face replaced by Balthier's, Rasler's smile gone, Balthier's smirk alight with mischief.
Ashe still thought him a dirty pirate in some respects (the way he spoke to people, and women above that; how he stole, even in market, be it bananas or baubles; the way he swung his hips in that insufferable swagger, and walked into a room as if he owned it, as well as the building, the street, the district and the city), but he was elegant and proper in his own way (which was oddly due to all of the above: the way he spoke to people, regally, and so devilishly reverent to women; how he stole, even in market, by twisting his tongue to the perfect shape, and exercising such aquiline skill; the way he swung his hips in that insufferable swagger, and could not think ill of himself by anyone's actions or words, and felt the world was his oyster and its people his bib, should they be fortunate enough to capture what few things he could not).
And, of course, she wondered where he had grown up to be a pirate with such impeccable manners (aside from pickpocketing). Balthier was a perfect contradiction to society, and an elegant one at that, where Ashe was society: angry and wronged and fearful. Where he was smooth, she was rough; where he was rich, she was poor; where he was white, she was black.
"I could use a bit more white," she said to the girl in the mirror, no longer shaking. The girl stared back, eyes hard and cold. "Too long have I been in mourning."
Ashe gave a great start when the silence was broken by a familiar click – the cabin door was being unlocked. He hadn't knocked… Well, of course he hadn't knocked! The girl in the mirror looked as if she were torn between retching and laughing, or perhaps one would be the cause of the other, as Ashe straightened herself, flattened her clothes, and tore her eyes from the looking glass.
The doorknob turned ever so slowly, as if taunting her; her reflection was shrunken and warped against the brass, but she could hear the girl calling, though from her own mind: Run? Stay? Hide and wait for him to fall asleep, then sneak out?
All her plans fell away. In stepped Balthier, altogether oblivious of her presence until the door was firmly shut behind him. He turned, his eyes to the ground, looking as if he were about to say something (to whom, she did not know), when he saw her and froze.
And, of course, he even froze handsomely: his eyebrows quirkily raised, an inquisitive smile on his lips. Ashe felt unkempt and clumsy, but did not rise.
"Princess?" His hand fell from the door to his side, a click slithered from the lock to her ears – that one small sound was enough to tell Ashe he knew exactly why she was there, and exactly what events were to follow.
She ran her tongue over her lips; the phantom of blood straightened her senses for a single second.
"I…" she began, but never finished. What was the use of speech where words fell short? Perhaps Balthier, with his grand engagement with language, could do her feelings justice, but never her, so she let her sentence trail off into infinity.
He knew, of course, as they both did. He might fancy an extravagant waterfall of words, but she wouldn't waste her voice with excuses. There was time ticking by, time to be filled with sins neither of them could absolve, and that only one of them would want to.
Her eyes searched him, never steady, so his smile warmed and he nodded. She knew all along, but it still struck her hard that he had not asked – she had so wanted him to ask. Did everyone know how utterly exhausted and afraid she was? That the weight of her country on her shoulders was crushing her down, hollowing her bones quickly and her heart quicker?
He must have expected something like this all along. Perhaps, if he were more callow, he would laugh at her, and say better this than a noose. Perhaps they all knew desperation would force her into the arms of someone, when her legs could no longer support her and held only the strength to run to another.
She looked away. He knew, but that did not mean he understood.
Balthier's sigh filled the silence. When her eyes found him, he was much closer. She drew in a harsh breath; his scent danced in the air around her. It was rich, but not a cologne, just… as one might think him to smell, of plunder and riches, of earth dug from grave robbing, of rich women's perfume, of crisp sky, of freedom.
A subtle thud – he placed his gun on the dresser, then, wordlessly, reached hands around his back to undo the laces of his vest. Ashe's cheeks flared with heat, and she felt like slapping herself. Of course he would cut straight to the heart of the matter, concise and surgical.
"Why shouldn't he?" called the girl from the mirror.
All along, Ashe knew he would not talk. No amount of handholding or back patting or "you're giving it your best" could connect him to her. He, who kept grave secrets and hid all from everyone, knew only one way to connect – one he had probably been waiting for since they'd first met.
He did not understand her weight, nor did he want to help carry it. No one wanted anyone else's grief unless there were something in it for them, Balthier most of all. There was no diamond in the rough – only burden, heavy and constant.
Yet she stayed, watching as he pulled his vest over his head, earrings chiming as they struck one another. She knew exactly what she wanted from him – and though it wasn't what she first came for, it would have to be enough – and by the looks of it, so did he.
He looked at her a moment, expectantly, and she realized with terrible slowness what he was waiting for. She bent immediately and began pulling off her boots. Thankfully, her fingers did not shake… However, they refused to move at all. She assumed she was groaning, because he leaned down then and helped her.
Help. It was nice. Even from him.
He slipped off one shoe, then glided the other down her leg with fluid fingers. It came to her then that she was chewing her lip again, and making no noise at all; he simply knew. The fact that she sensed her unease and wanted to quell it calmed her. She closed her eyes and let her lip slid from her teeth.
She laid her hands flat on either side of her hips, afraid they might cling to the blanket, white-knuckled and unattractive. They were stiff at her sides, unnaturally rigid, but as she kept her eyes trained on Balthier, she took no notice.
His fingers continued up her legs, making quick work of her armor. Feather light touches ghosted over her skin as her leggings slid off; she suppressed any sound, gleeful or otherwise, and glued her gaze to his hands. She could hardly stand to look as they traveled nearer to the hem of her skirt. She closed her eyes, sensitive to every piquant touch, and stuck her tongue firmly between her teeth.
Don't ruin it, don't ruin it, don't ruin it…
She inhaled sharply; his hands were over her own. Her eyes flew open and she watched him lift her hands, as gentlemen often did at court, and place a light kiss on each knuckle. A great breath curled out of her, her shoulders fell a bit, and her fingers relaxed until they were no longer stiff sticks. Balthier then slipped off her armguards, nimble and careful; the metal felt as silk, so tactfully did he handle it. Ashe was impressed by his intuition and skill, even if she were ashamed of her own.
His eyes met hers, drawn from her skin for the first time, a moment she had been dreading. But nothing mischievous dwelled within them, nothing to fill her with fear, but everything to chase it away. In fact, they possessed a sincerity she had not thought possible of him. She scolded herself then. Of course he didn't possess it! He was, as he said, "the leading man" after all, and this was another scene in his play. His eyes weren't empathic, only trained to seem that way.
She hoped the disappointment didn't show. She didn't have time for anymore uncertainty, especially not on his behalf, so she screwed her eyes shut and closed the distance between them. His lips were soft and inviting, not as she expected them to be – perhaps a bit chapped. His hand floated away from her own, brushing her shoulder just so, to the back of her neck. She leaned back onto the bed, welcoming him to join her, stifling the doubt biting at her mind. The girl in the mirror slurred something; Ashe did not open her eyes. Doubt would do nothing for her at this point – besides, wasn't it what led her here in the first place?
His tongue slipped into her mouth with practiced expertise. A shiver ran the length of her spine, up and down, spidering along her nerves until she felt on fire. She had never kissed so intimately, not even on her and Rasler's wedding night. Taking virginity, she found, was different than making love, but she had neither of those now – virginity or love. She was somewhere oddly between innocent and in love, though she wasn't sure with whom – perhaps her country.
The mattress sunk – imperceptible if every nerve of her had not been at attention – as he crawled over her, a knee delicately on each side of her hips. His fingers toying with a lock of hair, fluttering down her jaw, over her throat, her shoulder, her arm, her stomach…
This was it, she knew. No turning back, or the embarrassment and shame would haunt her forever, right alongside Rasler.
Fear nothing but stifled shrieks in the background of her mind, Ashe ran weary hands down his chest, over the fine fabric of his shirt. She tugged until it fell free of his pants. A hand, both rough and soft, brushed her waist, under the curve of her breast, and she squirmed, unsure if she ought to be delighted or terrified. Ashe shut her eyes until not a hint of light peaked through, willing herself to grasp the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. It was simple enough, wasn't it? But her hands would do nothing but hover there in indecision, useless.
She felt like screaming.
When she opened her eyes, she could not look at him, only glare at her hands, trembling so weakly and barely pinching his shirt. She tore her lips from his and hissed.
Pull it! Pull it! she cursed over and over in her head. Pull it, you shrew!
Larger, darker, steadier hands came over her shaking ones. They cradled hers, firm, forgiving, seeping solace. One left; a finger stroked her cheek. Ashe's eyes went to the bead of water balancing on Balthier's knuckle and realized with horrid clarity that she'd been crying. She gasped and withdrew her hands from his, sharp and fast, wiping her face shamefully.
"I'm sorry," were the only worse she could muster, her cheeks vibrant with humility.
So, that was it. She came here seeking comfort and only succeeded in making an absolute fool of herself.
No… No, she would not surrender so easily. Ashe drew a deep, purposeful breath, collected her frazzled thoughts, steadied her hands and grasped the hem of his shirt. But at the slightest graze of fabric, her fingers were overcome with horrible tremors that left her face red with frustration and chagrin.
His hands came over hers again, pulling them away. He took one and tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his.
"It's all right," was all he said, as he slid one knee to rest on the left side of her with the other.
Ashe could do nothing but nod dumbly, feeling like the spectator of her own sad, sad play.
Ill with idiocy, she rose to sitting and glanced at the door. How long to put on her clothes and leave? Could she stand to do it with him lying there, kindly pretending not to listen? What if she fumbled with the lock? Perhaps she could scoop her clothes up and leave and run to her room as fast as possible. Basch's, Vaan's and Penelo's were the only ones in the way from here to there. Ashe wanted to die. She'd run into them, of course she would.
But she would risk it anyway, or so she thought, until an arm wrapped around her shoulders and tugged her back. She numbly obeyed it, falling softly on her side, back warm against Balthier's chest. Nimble fingers dragged a strand of hair behind her ear, a pair of lips placing a dainty kiss on her neck.
"Good night," whispered Balthier, and that was that.
Ashe's cheeks dried as she lay flush against him, contentedly feeling his chest rise and fall with breath. She smiled – a small, tiny smile, her first in a very long time. It was not perfection, or perfect comfort, but as she let her eyes drift slowly closed, and felt Balthier's steady heartbeat and warm arms, the frost at the edge of her heart began, ever so slightly, to thaw.
It was not something undone in a night, she realized. The last three years brought an ice age over her entire self, and no talk or kiss, no matter how warm, could thaw it in a night. But perhaps, like this, with help, the frost would melt and spring would come, where new life could grow.
As she drifted into sleep, to the smell of earth and perfume and sky, there was little else in the world that Ashe wanted than what she had: a warm heart on a cold night.