Our Love to Admire – Last
Balthier/Ashe, PG-13
Inspired by: The Heinrich Maneuver, from Our Love to Admire; Doomsday, Doctor Who
Note: This is not the final story in the series, even though I'm posting out of order.
But I don't want to take your heart
And I don't want a piece of history
No, I don't want to read your thoughts anymore
-The Heinrich Maneuver, from Our Love to Admire
He'd accused her of being a murderer once. And though it was necessary and quite frankly did the whole bloody world a service to rid Ivalice of Cid Bunansa, why can't he quash the guilt? He must fly tomorrow, must use his reflexes and so he cannot drink the feelings away. A tavern full of pirates in mourning for their lost leader and six in the corner with mugs of water. Perhaps their last shared meal, their last chance to clink glasses and wish for a better tomorrow.
If they're to make it to Rabanastre by midday, they must leave at dawn and so their numbers at the Whitecap will soon dwindle. Penelo, still so uncertain about the higher level magicks even though she's the best he's ever seen. Basch, unsure whether or not his brother made it away from Ridorana safely…and wondering why he cares. Vaan, the death of Reddas just one more person dear to him lost in a seemingly endless cycle. Fran, as unreadable as ever but at least something in their circle is constant. And as he sips his water, he cannot look at the Princess for it will surely be his undoing.
She sits beside him, her fingers resting on the oaken bench close enough to grasp and to reassure. But in life or in death tomorrow, the two of them have been living on borrowed time. They storm Bahamut – after that he either returns to the skies that are his home or returns to the earth that he comes from. No sticky gray area, no maybes, no compromises. If all goes well, they'll have Vayne beaten by evening. He can return the ring and be back in Balfonheim in time for a late supper.
He moves his hand away from the temptation of her own and uses it to raise his mug to his lips, the cool water not soothing him the way something more substantial could. Never was very good with attachments. May as well let her believe him a sky pirate through and through – even though he's allowed her to see that it is really not the way of him. It's been a charmed few months, the worst and best of his life. But to continue with her would only be a mess, and they'd grow to loathe one another, surely. The same old tune - Ashe confronts, he runs.
"Balthier?" Vaan inquires, speaking for one of the first times since they'd departed the manse earlier in the evening. "What are you planning to do? You know, when it's over?"
He can almost feel the tension radiating from Ashe beside him, can tell that her mind is going to pick apart any answer he gives. Gazing only at the rim of the mug, he measures his words, making them innocuous to all but the woman he's grown to love. "I'm a sky pirate and always will be. We'll be competitors from now on, Vaan, and don't you forget it."
Vaan chuckles and Penelo joins him. Basch is unaffected, and Fran is silent. But Ashe heard more than the others had.
"I think I'll retire," she tells them all, and there isn't even the slightest quavering in her voice. That is her response to him. Basch rises to escort her back to the manse, and her sudden absence on the bench at his side pains him.
Vaan and Penelo continue eating in thoughtless oblivion while Fran watches him, his eyes focused on the etchings left in the table by generations of pirates before him. Hearts and the names of dozens of women, wyrms and sea monsters, all carved with delicate haste into the sturdy wood. All that remains of leading men history has forgotten. He'll help to leave his own mark on history tomorrow – and then Ashe can forget him, as she should. She's worked too hard for all of this.
But Fran won't look away, and he can sense her questions without her having to voice them aloud. You will fight beside her and then sever it all, Fran asks him with those damned eyes. You will turn your back on it? You will not even try? Coward, she accuses him, rising from the table without saying a single word.
"It's best you children get to bed," he murmurs, and though Vaan groans at being called a child, Penelo seems to sense that something has happened. He waits until he thinks Fran is far enough away to leave the table and wander through the miserable drunks and loose women to the fresh air outside. The walk back to the near-empty manse is a long one, and he plans for tomorrow, envisioning the quickest route to Rabanastre. But thoughts of air currents and velocities and the like keep getting pushed aside by Cid and the threat of Bahamut and the woman he tells himself he should forget.
But they've not yet parted, and they'll still be fighting side by side tomorrow. He wishes he'd had something stronger to drink. He puts on a chipper face for Reddas' guards at the front entrance and even cheerfully wishes Basch good night in the foyer. The room he's been lent for the night lies at the top of the stairs, and with each step, he begins to question his decision. Fran's silent commentary and the empty ache he'd felt when Ashe departed the table are combining and twisting in his mind, urging him to go to her. They've been granted one more night, have they not?
Ashe has taken the room at the end of the hallway, the furthest from his own, and he remembers it from their last visit. He'd claimed her there for the first time, but Balthier sighs, knowing that if anyone has been claimed it is him. Stopping in his room first, he discards his vest and loosens his collar. He runs a hand through his hair, finding little things to occupy himself to delay his walk to the room at the end of the hall, his walk to the end of a life spent in Ashe's company.
With no more items to straighten out or rearrange in nervous agitation, he exits the room and begins to walk. With each footstep he knows he is closer to saying farewell. They'll see one another tomorrow, but it's strictly business then. He moves past his companions' doors and finally halts his progress at the end. All that stands between them now is this door, but will he be able to walk through it?
He lets his fingers drift to the smooth, cool door and traces a small knot in the wood. He says her name in a hoarse whisper, hearing the shifting of weight on the mattress inside as he leans his whole body against the door and presses his ear to it. Standing so close now, he lets his vision focus on some distant shadow in the corner of the dim hallway. He hears the creaking of floorboards from inside as she moves to the door.
It is almost like a paralysis has struck him, and he doesn't move. He listens and hears the slightest scratching noises as thin fingers rest against the other side of the door. There is pressure, and the hinges creak quietly as she seems to be mirroring the same pose, the palm of her hand brushing a spot near the door handle. Separated by inches, he listens to her breathe on the other side, moving his fingertips to the spot where he hears her exhalations.
He closes his eyes, shuts them tightly and listens. Her breathing is uneven and heavy as though she's been crying or screaming into her pillow or whatever it is women do when the men who claim to care for them treat them poorly. What she would not and could not show the others at the Whitecap has seemingly burst from her in some fit of madness, and he hears a sniffle or two as she desperately tries to remain silent and waits for him to apologize or enter the room or at least speak.
Balthier runs the pads of his fingers where her lips must be on the other side, conjuring them in his mind. He cannot touch the soft strands of her hair, cannot rest a possessive palm against her hip. It is one last night, one last chance to be with her – but is that really how they should leave things? Is it not cleaner…is it not simpler to just let it be over? The fingernails on the other side scratch a bit, as though she's clenching her fist against the wood there.
He called her name, summoned her to the door and yet here he remains. He initiated this sorry state of affairs tonight as he initiated their first kiss and their first time together. He realizes that he's started it all, pulling her from the safety of her widowhood and into what others would deem a torrid affair if they knew. He's led her along a slippery slope and though his loyalty to her and her cause are unwavering, he cannot be anything more. Surely she knows and understands that. She must be a Queen.
But her resolve falters after so many months of hiding her pain so well. It is there for mere seconds, an exhale of breath that gets away from her, at the last moment becoming a sob. She bites it back almost immediately, and he hears her clap her hand over her mouth. But the cry has hurt his ears and damned him. Go to her, his mind tells him. Go to her.
Opening his eyes, he moves away to return to his room, leaving her door without letting his fingers brush the handle.