To her back he stands, the heat of battle encasing them as they faced north and south as one. The sun is strong edging away from noon hour and though filtered by the weaving silhouettes of buildings, it is still warm to her ears and back. She can smell the sweat, hers, his and that of the Imperial guards who are at, at the very least, three sides around them at present. There are only six at most, five as one is felled by her last released arrow but their armor is thick and hard to penetrate. Gunpowder wafts past her nose in waves from his fired shots, timed and precise—they are likely now only facing four, but after the running chase they'd endured, they are wearing thin.
Not far away are the flames of a city on fire, the smell of burning wood and hot stone. Her lips are salty as she wets them, parrying a heavy swing from one guard and threading her arrow through the thin gap in his helmet and chest piece. She has nearly run out of arrows, two days' worth of hunt followed by inner-city chaos left little time to replenish the quiver. At this rate he should be low on lead as well, but she spares him no passing glance—they are as one, working in unison and connected through feeling. If she thinks it, so must he have already come to the conclusion. She has two shots left, if he has as many they are on the lucky side. Supposing they do not miss.
She faces two dead on, notching an arrow and drawing it back fluid and close to her breast. The guards stand back now, one with a spear and the other a broadsword. They're waiting for her as she is waiting for them. Her ears twitch, she listens for their armor to give away their movements.
Clatters are behind her, that would make three remaining.
Running would be the course of action now. No longer tempting fate.
His shoulders blades brush against her back, the space between them now nonexistent. He is breathing hard, as is she. Her head tilts, briefly betraying knowing as if she needs to see it with her own eyes that the blood she smells—the metallic tang that has just invaded her nose so profusely, is indeed Balthier's. It is only a second's half-glance, nothing seen at all save the curve of his cheek, but it's confirmation enough to catch a stronger sniffing of that thick smell. His heart is faster than hers, his expression is likely a grimly set lip and narrowed eyes.
"On three." He says, and she need not nod.
They are now running, her strides longer than his but taken slower to keep in pace. When he slips behind she does not falter, for he catches up in his next wind and they have found shadow to rest in. To breathe in. Her forearms sting with shallow slices, her thigh sporting the deepest wound on her body. Her height is often advantageous, with the exception of bowing to low ceilings, as humes often aim for hume guts and strike high viera thigh. They have time to set eyes on one another and she sees him clutch an arm across his midsection, but her eyes meet his and he shakes his head unconcerned. His earrings sway, and she sees the beads of sweat on his brow and that grim thin line of his lips.
He often has too much pride for her assistance, and they are already onboard the ship when he falls behind yet again in stride. She is unfastening the side clasps to her armor when she hears the stock of his gun hit the grating floor. She turns quickly, and into her arms he slides with a reluctance that makes her smile as with great urgency it would be lacking. His blood is warm over her wrists, and as she walks him to the cabin. His breathing is slower, laced with pain and perhaps some bruised dignity.
"We owe ourselves some spirit for that." He says, grimacing as she aids him in the removal of his vest.
"Aye," she replies. "And a good washing, as my skin and your clothes ought show."