One of my first tries at this fandom. Concrit (especially on characterization!) is most welcome. I do not own FFXII, though I can think of a few things I'd do with Fran and Balthier if I did.
Easy Access
He has always been particularly nit-picky about his clothing, forever voicing his complaints about the world's apparent desire to ruin every shirt he owns. Somehow, his blouses never look quite as white as they did before venturing out into the desert, and the smell of sewer never seems to wash completely clean. The cuffs often catch on the business end of his partner's arrows, or on the jagged faces of the numerous cliffs they are daily forced to climb. Being caught time and time again certainly does his clothes no favors, and he's long-since learned that the rough handling of overzealous bounty hunters tends to leave lasting tears. He exaggeratingly estimates that half of his loot profits go toward a new wardrobe, and sometimes remarks that it might be less expensive to forgo the satin vests and silk shirts altogether.
His partner has the patience of someone who's had over a century to cultivate it, and she doesn't roll her eyes too often.
"Balthier," she says slowly, and he's torn between thinking her voice sounds mystic or just nasal. "You ought not worry so much over trivial things. Your clothes are only fleeting luxuries—perhaps donning armor would be more efficient."
He hums in assent and then proceeds to shake his head. "Ah, but it is the clothes that make the man, love, and the star of this fine drama must be properly outfitted." He examines the fine make of the green and gold vest he wears, running his pistol-callused fingers over it critically. "A gentleman such as myself could never show his face wearing something as callous as steel, my dear. Though, I admit, it does look rather fetching on you."
This time she does roll her eyes, silently asking the gods why she ever decided to partner up with such a vain Hume. In the next instant, however, she grabs a hold of his shirt in her hands and pushes him unceremoniously to the ground, straddling his hips and pressing his wrists into the dirt. He doesn't have time to bemoan the fate of his cuffs (this was a new shirt!) before she covers his mouth roughly with her own.
Hours later, when he recovers what had once been his nicest satin vest—now more closely resembling a handful of rather well-embroidered ribbons—he vows never to wear armor in her presence, despite how economic it might be.
Easy access, after all.