Balthier had not argued with Ashe's decision only because to do so would rouse suspicion, and it did not suit his purposes to have anyone question him. He counted himself lucky that Penelo herself had not raised any objections of her own, but then she was generally inclined to go along and not make waves, and perhaps she, too, wished to avoid the interrogation that would surely follow should she refuse.

Thus she walked briskly beside him, silent and pensive. The Aerodrome loomed in the distance, massive passenger ships soaring into view behind, eclipsing the dull red brick of the building. The cobblestone streets blended into an elegant stonework thoroughfare; no expense had been spared in the creation of the Aerodrome, which had put Balfonheim on the map and firmly cemented it as one of the largest metropolitan regions in all of Ivalice.

He stopped briefly, pulling Penelo out of the flow of foot traffic and off to the side of the street. He jerked a brightly colored ring from one of the fingers of his left hand, and held out his hand to her. She stared blankly, perplexed.

"Give me your hand," he said impatiently. "We haven't got all day. The left, if you please."

She hesitated a moment, then set her hand gently in his, timidly, as though she might snatch it away should he grab at her. Her fingers were soft and cool, the pale delicacy of them exaggerated by the largeness of his own. He shoved the ring onto her finger - it slid on easily, overlarge for her, and she had to curl her fingers to keep it from falling off.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Our cover." He resumed walking, and she hurried to catch up to him, his long-legged strides forcing her to near-jog just to keep pace with him. She sensed his discomfiture, knew he had not wanted to be stuck with her - just as she had not wanted to be stuck with him. She could not know, however, that his present pique was due not to being forced into accompanying her, but rather to having given his ring over to her. She could not know that it had felt, to him, uncomfortably like a promise, a pledge.

As they entered the Aerodrome, Penelo marvelled at the crowd, the flurry of activity, the steady streams of people lining up for their flights, collecting their luggage, hurrying on their way. Then she realized that she was gawking like a child and focused her attention on following Balthier, because at least he seemed to know where he was going.

They approached the counter, behind which stood a rosy-cheeked woman, and Balthier said, "Two to Archades."

She dimpled at them, her eyes shining with delight. "Ahhh," she said knowingly. "Newlyweds."

Nothing in the world could have kept Penelo from blushing furiously at that, and she opened her mouth to correct the woman. But before she could, Balthier's arm had slid around her waist, pulling her tight up against his side.

"That's right," he said. "First time on an airship for you, isn't it, darling?" He linked their hands, holding Penelo's - with his ring on it - up for the attendant to see.

"Yes," Penelo squeaked. His ruse had become clear, but surely he could see that she had no idea how a newly married woman was expected to behave?

"She's a bit nervous," Balthier said to the woman conspiratorially. "Taking her home to meet my family for the first time." He could imagine what they looked like to the woman - the dashing man, his sweet, blushing bride. She must be spinning romantic stories in her head of how he'd swept Penelo off her feet, carried her off and married her before she could catch her breath, spiriting her away to a foreign land, some sort of variation on carrying her off into the sunset.

"Congratulations," the woman said, handing over their tickets. "I've arranged for a bottle of champagne to be sent up to your cabin. Complementary, of course."

"You're too kind," he gave the attendant a smile that sent her into a vivid blush, raised Penelo's hand to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles, looking every inch the adoring husband. "Come, darling, we mustn't miss our flight." He was at least satisfied that Penelo's look of shock would probably be mistaken for the aftereffects of a whirlwind courtship.

When they had gotten far enough from the kiosk, Penelo shook her hand free and again put a respectable distance between them.

"Cabin? What did she mean, our cabin?"

"The flight to Archades is long. A journey of roughly eighteen hours." His tone was as bland and informative as he had hoped. "While the ship will have a leisure deck - restaurants, shops, bars, and such - due to the duration of the passage, each travelling group is assigned a cabin, in which they might pass the time more comfortably in sleep."

A strange little shudder slid down her spine. "A cabin. A cabin," she stressed more clearly. "Just the one?"

"Correct."

"I guess it would be too much to hope for two beds?"

He heard the tremor in her voice, the tiny thread of hope to which she clung tenaciously, and her own reticence to subject herself to his company pricked his temper enough to ruthlessly squash that last bit of hope.

He seized her hand, threading his fingers through hers in a vise-like grip. "Don't be ridiculous, darling. We are supposed to be newlyweds, after all." Her hand was cold and clammy; she walked beside him mechanically, as if her body moved of its own accord rather than under her instruction.

"Why did you tell her that?" The pressure of his fingers pressed hers tightly together and his ring bit into the fingers on either side. She did not complain of it, because somehow she knew he would not release her hand anyway, not when he had a charade to maintain.

"Why else might we be traveling together? You're not young enough to be my daughter. She'd never have believed us as siblings. Giving her a romantic story to attach to us will negate suspicion. And none will question why we remain in the cabin rather than to mingle with the other passengers."

She jerked as if she'd been struck. "We have to stay in the cabin?"

"While the likelihood of encountering anyone who knows either of us is slim, it is nonetheless present, and it would be best were we to avoid unnecessary socializing. Now, smile, dear girl. Put on a show for the stewardess." He handed over their tickets to the woman waiting to receive them, relieved to see that Penelo had managed a decent approximation of a blissful expression, and if her sunny smile did not reach her eyes, the stewardess did not notice. Balthier gallantly tucked Penelo's frozen hand into the crook of his elbow and she sidled closer, clinging to him, looking up at him in a passable imitation of adoration.

Penelo let Balthier lead the way, darting furtive glances about as they crossed through the gate, up a ramp and onto the ship itself. The stewardess walked ahead of them, pointing out directions to various restaurants and shops as they passed, indicating which elevators could be used to access which decks. Finally she stopped before a door, inserted a key into the lock, and pushed it open.

"Here we are," she said, handing the key to Balthier. "Please enjoy the flight. We'll be departing shortly." And she was off to escort another party to their rooms.

"After you," Balthier said, somewhat snidely, for he had not missed how quickly Penelo had sprung away from him as soon as the attendant was out of sight, as though he might have the plague.

She inched into the room, relieved to find not just a bed, but a small sitting area which possessed a low table, two chairs, and a plush sofa. A silver bucket containing a bottle of champagne sat upon the table, alongside two glasses, two sets of silverware rolled in cloth napkins, and a platter of what looked to be an assortment of fruits and cheeses.

The door closed with a snap behind her. She heard the snick of the lock engaging, and watched as Balthier crossed the room, lifting the chilled bottle of champagne from its container. He wrapped one of the napkins around the cork and gently eased it from the bottle with a muffled pop, then carefully filled both of the glasses.

One he held out to Penelo, who took it reluctantly, staring curiously at the fizzing liquid in her glass.

"What, have you never had champagne before?" he asked, and then wished he could take back the thoughtless words, because of course she hadn't. What opportunity would she have had for it, after all?

But she either chose to ignore the fainting chiding tone or did not notice it, because she merely said absently, "No," and continued watching the tiny bubbles rise to the surface of her glass.

He took a seat in one chair, and gestured to the other. "Might as well sit and enjoy it. You've earned it. An admirable performance." He tipped his glass towards her in salute, and took a drink from his glass. Of Archadian origin, it was sweet and mild, crisp, with fruity undertones. He decided she would like it.

She sank into the chair opposite him, turned the glass this way and that, and took a hesitant sip. Her face changed, eyebrows winging up in surprise.

"Oh. It tickles. It's...interesting." She took another sip, larger this time. "I think I like it."

He decided he rather enjoyed seeing her try something new; it was as though he could experience it again for the first time vicariously through her. But that alone was a disturbing line of thinking. He pushed the fruit tray across the table towards her. "You had better eat something."

Obediently she picked up a fork, speared a strawberry, and took a bite. Her glass was half empty already, because she had liked the pleasant fizz, liked the subtle fruit flavors on her tongue, liked the way it warmed her from the inside. She knew this might be a once in a lifetime experience, but she could not bring herself to savor it.

The ship rocked a little, and she started in alarm.

"We've lifted off," Balthier said. "No need to worry."

"Eighteen hours, then," she said, and he gave a brief nod.

She held out her glass for him to refill. "I'll take the sofa," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous. What sort of gentleman would I be?" He ignored the snort of derision she gave, topping up her glass and his own. "Drink it slowly; it will go to your head."

It was going to her stomach. The warmth seeped through her body, invading her limbs with a kind of curious lethargy that she found as strange as she did pleasant. It infused her whole body with a hazy glow, as if she'd been wrapped in a warm blanket.

"I don't think I sleep very well in beds anymore, thank you," she said, and yawned. "I'd prefer the sofa."

"Was yours not to your liking last night?" He studied her curiously. Already the alcohol had relaxed her; her stiff posture had softened - she no longer sat rigid in her chair but lounged comfortably.

"It was fine," she said. "I just didn't...sleep well." She colored delicately, but he did not know whether the flush indicated embarrassment or inebriation. Already she was halfway through her second glass. He briefly considered taking it from her, but decided instead to allow her to learn her own lesson on moderation, as he had learned his at a similar age.

"I think it was too quiet," she said thoughtfully. "I've gotten so used to Vaan's snoring. Or one of the other children kicking me, or stealing my blanket." She shrugged, then said in a thoughtful tone, "I don't think I know how to sleep when I don't have to fight for it."

Ahh. She would be one of the chatty ones.

"You never answered my question, you know."

Balthier blinked. "What?"

"About your letter. I asked who you had written to."

Too chatty. "I didn't answer because it's none of your business." Annoyed, he took refuge in cruelty. "What could possibly make you think I'd share my personal business with a street child of the lower classes?"

She clapped a hand over her mouth to silence the brief spurt of laughter that escaped, but the mirth sparkled in her eyes.

He clenched his jaw. "I insult you and you have the audacity to laugh?"

"Because you don't really think that," she said. "You just said it to deflect. Besides, why should I be offended? Am I to blame for my circumstances? Should I be ashamed of being born to parents that weren't nobility?" She tossed back the last of her champagne. "You use condescension to keep people at a distance, because if they're angry, they won't look too closely. But I'm used to insults. The Imperial soldiers spat them at us every day for years. After a while, I learned to let them just roll off. So," she said, setting down her glass and leaning forward. "Who did you write to? Does it have something to do with Draklor Laboratory?"

She was too perceptive by half. And he was half-tempted to tell her all. He settled for refilling both of their glasses, emptying the last of the bottle.

"I'm not in the habit of discussing my personal affairs and I don't intend to begin now," he said. Besides, she would find out soon enough.

Her lips pursed into a moue of disappointment. "I wish you would learn to trust us, just a little," she said.

He smiled sardonically. "I learned early on that no one can be trusted."

She left her glass on the table, untouched, twisted in the chair to hang her legs over one arm, and rested her cheek against the back. "That's such a sad way to live," she murmured on a yawn. She closed her eyes. Her sleepless night seemed to have caught up with her. But she was warm and relaxed. She stretched with her whole body, her arms raised over her head, her toes pointed. She did not see Balthier's gaze linger on the bare expanse of her stomach, on her upthrust breasts as she arched, then curled into the chair.

He watched her in silence for several minutes, heard her breathing grow deep and even. Doubtless he shouldn't have let her have so much champagne. But at least asleep, she couldn't question him further, attempting to wear down his resistance by making a nuisance of herself. Although she did that anyway, looking so bloody soft and touchable, all rosy cheeks and soft skin, pink lips he knew would taste of champagne and strawberries.

He sighed, wrestling with himself for a few moments, trying to decide what he ought to do with her. At length, he decided on the bed, rising to jerk down the covers, then returning to slide his arms beneath her knees and shoulders, lifting her carefully to prevent waking her. She turned her face against his shoulder, making a soft, kittenish sound. He deposited her gently upon the mattress, carefully unlacing her shoes and slipping them off of her feet to set them on the floor at the foot of the bed. After a moment's hesitation, he decided on taking down her hair as well, untying the bit of ribbon that bound it.

Mistake. The soft cloud of her hair fell free, shining and silky upon the pillow. The scent of the soap from last night's bath - lavender, as he'd expected - drifted up to tease his nose. And he had been correct, the fragrance suited her. This close to her, he noticed a smattering of tiny golden freckles across the bridge of her nose, and wondered how he had not noticed the purple smudges beneath her eyes, betraying her lack of restful sleep.

He had not slept well, either. She had invaded his dreams just as she invaded his waking hours. How could he be expected to hold her at a distance when even his subconscious betrayed him? He had had no problems prior to her; he had long since mastered the art of remaining aloof, uninvolved. How had she managed to worm her way under his skin, insert herself into his thoughts, flow through his veins as though she were in his very blood?

She shifted in her sleep, curling onto her side facing him, snuggling deeper into the plush softness of the mattress. Her left hand rested on the pillow beside her head, his ring hooked loosely on her finger, in imminent danger of falling off of her hand altogether. He reached for it, with the intention of reclaiming it, but somehow found himself pushing it back on instead. He tried to tell himself it was to maintain their story, but in reality, it merely satisfied some primal instinct inside of him to leave some mark, some proprietary symbol on her, with her.

He shot a rueful glance at the sofa. She could have fit on it comfortably, but he was a head taller than she. It would be a cramped fit, and certainly not conducive to sleep.

A darkling thought. The bed was large - he imagined it could fit three more people comfortably. And he was only one.

And really, he was not, after all, that much of a gentleman.


It was some hours later when Penelo awoke from her nap by degrees, her languid stretch interrupted by the bands of heat and muscle that restricted her movement. For a moment, she thought the events of the last month or so had been a dream and that even now she was curled on her pallet in Lowtown, flanked by the warm bodies of the other street children. But no bony knees pressed into her back, no one's hair dangled over her face, tickling her nose. No one had unwittingly wrenched her blanket away from her in the night, leaving her to shiver.

A skitter of awareness shivered through her as the pillow beneath her head flexed gently, revealing itself to be not a pillow at all, but someone's arm. Balthier's arm. It had to be. She tried to gather her thoughts, but they were hazy and fluttered away from her even as she snatched at them. Bits of memory, fuzzy strings of conversation.

She remembered saying, "I'll take the sofa." This was certainly not the sofa.

With a sort of detached curiosity she opened her eyes, attempting to focus. Bare chest, two inches from the tip of her nose. Glancing upwards was impossible; the top of her head knocked the underside of his chin, and he shifted irritably in sleep, grumbling something under his breath. The arm beneath her head curled around, hand plunging into her hair, gathering a fistful of it, rubbing it between his fingers like a child might worry the edges of a blanket or the floppy ears of a beloved stuffed animal. The arm wrapped around her at her back pressed along her spine, tugging her into the curve of his body, fingers absently stroking the nape of her neck. Then there was a rumble in his chest, a self-satisfied purr of sound, like a large cat would make.

Her arms were curled between them, cool hands warmed by the heat of his chest. Somehow, his knee had worked between both of hers so that they were twined together, her left leg draped over his. As indecent as it might've been for them to share a bed, she was still fully clothed, save for shoes, and the belt buckle pressing against the soft flesh of her stomach told her that he still wore his trousers, at least.

She found it telling that as unapproachable as he was in his waking hours, now, in his sleep, he had enveloped her securely in his arms. Her heart ached for him, because as much as he denied a desire for intimate relationships, she knew it for a lie, had heard the loneliness in his voice. He was wounded, suspicious, and distrustful; his mysterious past had shaped him in that fashion and he wore those scars like armor. But unconsciously, his body betrayed him. He clung to her like a lifeline, as if he needed to touch her. As if he needed to be touched, to feel alive, to feel something other than the coldness he showed everyone.

"Poor, lonely man," she sighed, and stroked her fingertips across his chest. The motion elicited another approving sound from his throat, and he nuzzled her hair. She supposed she should have been annoyed, offended even, that he had climbed into bed with her instead of doing the honorable thing and taking the couch himself. But instead she was just...warm. Sleepy, warm, and protected from the outside world by the security and comfort of Balthier's arms around her.

She closed her eyes and eased the tiniest bit closer. It was nice, for once, to simply be held.


The fragrance of lavender. A fistful of silken hair caught in his fingers. The soft press of her bare stomach against his. One of his legs caught between hers. Ahhh, this was a dream he knew well. There were extra touches this time; the gentle sigh of her breath at his throat, the way a few strands of her hair clung to the stubble that shadowed his jaw. Somehow the weight of her pressed against him was more solid, more real than before.

He stroked his fingers down her back, but his path was impeded by the thin strings binding her top to her chest. But his agile fingers made short work of them; a slight tug pulled the loose bows free, and the material sagged. Another gentle pull, and she was divested of the garment completely. He tossed it aside, not caring where it fell. He heard her quick, indrawn breath, but disregarded it as immaterial. In his dreams, her missishness had always melted under the heat of his ardor.

In a smooth motion he rolled her to her back, one hand spanning her flat stomach, the other braced beside her head. Her eyes were unfocused, dazed, as if she hadn't yet fully processed what had happened. He watched, bemused, as a tide of hot color swept over her face, creeping down her throat and over her chest. She gave a futile jerk, as if to cover herself, but he snatched her hands up in his, pinning them beside her head. She had never done that before, excepting the night he'd watched her bathing at the hot spring.

But the cobwebs of sleep were clearing away, and he had to face the truth, that the bits that had made it seem so very real were the bits that had made it real, and he should have known from the very first. He should have put her away from him immediately, for he had no right at all to touch her.

Her hands clenched and unclenched, still held fast by his. He ought to release her. He was going to release her. He glanced down, not at her face, but at the breasts he'd uncovered. Swallowed tightly. Eventually. He was going to release her eventually. Another thick swallow; his mouth had gone dry.

"You...you..." Her body vibrated with tension beneath him, quaking with fury, with embarrassment. She struggled for words, but couldn't come up with anything appropriate, because he was staring at her breasts and she'd never seen an expression on his face quite like that before.

"Are you going to hit me, then, if I let you go?" The question was deceptively mild, directed to her breasts rather than her face.

"Yes!" She snapped indignantly.

"Good. That's good, then." He released her wrists at once, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. The fine tremor that shook it did not go unnoticed by her. His shoulders bunched, the muscles of his abdomen clenched as if in preparation for the violent fury he expected her to unleash.

And she...did nothing. She ought to have. She drew in a large breath to berate him, but it shuddered out instead, useless. The twisted covers were just there; she could easily have reached them, grabbed them, covered herself.

But...no one had ever looked at her like that.

His eyes flicked from her breasts to her face, narrowed.

"You ought to have hit me," he said, and his voice had lowered to a feral growl.

She gave a jerky nod.

"More fool, you." He loomed over her, vaguely menacing, angry now that he had given her an avenue for escape and she had not taken it. "You had your chance."

He moved in closer, his knee widening the vee of her thighs, pressing forward until she gasped. His hands settled on her waist, sliding up the smooth flesh, lips quirking as he felt her muscles contract beneath his hands, flinching as if the contact tickled. His fingers lingered over her ribcage, feeling the delicacy of the bones beneath the skin, then continued up, brushing the undersides of her breasts, then filling his hands with them. The tender flesh was soft, so smooth and perfect. Her rapid heartbeat thrummed against his fingertips. Her nipples pebbled under his palms and he let out an unsteady breath, unprepared for the reality of touching her like this. Dreams, however wicked, paled in comparison. She was so much softer, so much more beautiful, so much more than he could ever have imagined.

His hands were hot, so hot. He was searing her skin, she was sure, and she squirmed, trying to ease the ache that had started low in her belly. His hands contracted infinitesimally; her back arched, and the movement pressed her breasts into his hands.

He was lost. He groaned, a raw sound of pure defeat. His body covered hers, heavy, hard where she was soft, a riot of foreign textures and sensations. His bare chest was on hers, his hands cradled her neck, lifting her to receive his kiss. Her hands had somehow found his shoulders, one clutching desperately, the other tentatively exploring the muscles that flexed in his back. This kiss was nothing like the one before, which had been all discovery, totally chaste in comparison. This kiss raged out of control, explosive and volatile. It swept her rational self away, set her adrift in a fierce current, leaving only a being of pure sensation in its wake. She trembled, she sighed, she lifted herself to his hands, reveling in his abandonment and her own.

His hands cupped her rear, lifting her into the the thrust of his hips, and this time she did not draw away in shock, this time she undulated against him, hating the thin fabric of her pants, the tight leather of his that separated their flesh. She felt him shudder, felt his hands grip a fraction harder than necessary. His breath was hot at her ear, her neck. She felt his unshaven jaw abrade the tender flesh of her throat. Felt his teeth scrape there with an electric shock that curled her nails into his shoulders, forced a soft cry from her tight throat.

His fingers trespassed beneath the waistband of her pants, cursing the fabric that hindered him, then sliding deftly over the generous curves of her pert bottom. And then his fingers faltered, because the texture of her soft skin had changed beneath his fingertips, still smooth, but oddly so, and with a slight ripple. Scar tissue. It brought him up short, and he stilled. She did as well, her breath hitching in her chest.

Passion fled as if it had never been, but still his fingers searched, incredulously. The mutilated flesh stretched across her rear and lower back, too low to be visible when she was clothed, but there nonetheless.

"Don't." Her voice was husky, clogged with a sudden, irrational onslaught of tears. She shoved at his chest ineffectually.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" he demanded. But he already knew - his mind worked in a frenzy to click the pieces of the puzzle into place. Her tearful plea for his assistance the night the healer had cauterized her, her fevered dreams of fire and death. She had been burned before, and badly. The proof of it she bore upon her body, carrying both mark and burden eternal.

"Get - off!"

This time he released her when she shoved him, rolling away, and she scrambled for the blanket, drawing it protectively about her shoulders. Her hair was mussed from his hands, her cheeks still tinged with pink, her lips bruised from his kiss. But her eyes were shiny bright with unshed tears, sparkling on her lashes like diamonds. They pierced him, accusatory.

He drew himself up to a seated position, returning her stare with his own.

"What happened?" he repeated. Because he needed to hear it; for the first time in years, he actually cared. Because she had been hurt, and he had not been there to protect her. And he knew that the injury had been years ago - the wound had long since healed - but even knowing that did not ease the answering hurt that rose in his chest, clawing at his heart.

She averted her eyes, huffing her irritation. "What business is it of yours?" she tossed at him spitefully, and he heard the echo of his own words in her scathing tone. He had offered nothing and expected everything, and he winced to be reminded of his own selfishness.

"All right," he said amiably. "I propose a trade. A story for a story."

"Which stories?" She narrowed her eyes, as distrustful in this moment as she had ever accused him of being.

"I want to know how you came to have that scar," he said. "And in return, I shall tell you the contents of the letter I posted in Balfonheim."

She considered this a moment, studying him intently. "I'll know if you're lying," she reminded him. "And I want the whole story, not just the contents of the letter. And it had better not be some bland recitation of the weather and inquiries after everyone's health. I'm not trading my story for some polite letter home."

The ghost of an acerbic smile touched his lips. If she only knew how right - and how very wrong - she was.

"I swear it is every bit as sordid as you first imagined," he said. It amused him that here they were, haggling over bits and pieces of their respective pasts. He had always guarded his like a miser with coins, and his own willingness to share - or, at least, to trade for it - had surprised even him. And he realized that he would never have made such an offer if he didn't trust her implicitly.

She nodded, finally, in acceptance. "All right. It's a deal."

"Hold that thought." He rose from the bed, grabbed up his shirt, and shrugged into it, then pressed the buzzer on the nightstand that would summon a stewardess. "I, at least, am going to require a good deal of whiskey."