Will not be updating this fic any further on fanfic net. The next installments are either very much NC17 or I've grown dissatisfied with their quality. As such if you are really curious, look up the Memories section of my ficjournal, at manicUNDERSCOREintentDOTlivejournalDOTcom

Hunting shadows

On his second visit to Nabudis' so-called Rogue's Sector, Basch was aware that he was being followed (prickling at the back of his neck; instinct). The press of bodies, however (unwashed stench, poverty, vice, base freedoms), as well as his lack of knowledge of the layout of the Sector made actually catching a glimpse of the culprit difficult, let alone accosting him or her.

He wanted to believe that whoever it was, it was tied to the reason he was here in the vice quarter of Nabudis in the first place; this proverbial den of iniquity, of beggars, thieves, hollow-eyed street urchins, whores and mercenaries – here, he stood out like a sore thumb, despite having taken pains to wear his plainest clothing (form-fitting brown collared shirt, sleeves folded to elbows, gray cotton breeches, a plain sword buckled at his hip to a red leather baldric). Or because of it – nothing stood out more than someone rather obviously trying his best not to stand out, after all, and Basch was indeed here to attract attention.

Four days spent discreetly observing the Nabudis aerodrome for a familiar orange-and-silver airship as well as inquiries around the moogle mechanics informed him that the Strahl, although not docked at the aerodrome, was indeed in Nabudis. It seemed there was another aerodrome, hidden on the outskirts of the capital proper; an open secret ignored by authorities – a port for pirates and associated less savory sort, which paid a higher premium for moogle mechanics, thus encouraging them to take shifts at the 'official' port as well as rotations at the 'unofficial' one.

Unfortunately, the moogle in question who had told him this (a green-jacketed and hatted youth with a tendency to wave a spanner about to punctuate his words and answered to the name Nono) refused to say any more. Bribes and Basch's best attempts at persuasion had only wheedled out the further information that Nono had been asked to tell any 'yellow-furred knight from Dalmasca asking after the Strahl' that it was in Nabudis' unofficial aerodrome, but nothing else.

A game – he disliked games. Still, if it amused the sky pirate, Basch supposed that he could, for now, marshal his patience. Discussions with Rasler and various friends in Nabudis, as well as a close perusal of the available city maps informed him of the most likely area that a sky pirate could be found in, given the strictly policed city; in the Rogue's Sector, neither status nor law was recognized. Despite, Rasler said, somewhat regretfully, his father's best efforts, the Rogue's Sector brought in the highest amount of Nabudis foreign exchange, and its excision, despite likely raising the moral standard of the city several rungs, would also just as likely destroy Nabradia's economy.

Four days spent embroiled in pre-war diplomatic councils, and he finally had further free days to actually attempt to explore the Rogue's Sector – keeping a close watch on his purse all the while, of course. Try as he might, however, enquiries had merely hit dead ends; no one professed to know the name Bunansa or Balthier, despite the show of coin. Either Balthier had bought their silence (which seemed unlikely, given the number of diverse people he had asked) or there was a rusted thieves' honor about the taverns and information merchants that involved their not selling out their fellow scoundrels to armed Knights.

He turned a corner in the bazaar, then quickly down an alley (that reeked of refuse and waste). Smirking as he heard a stifled oath, behind him, he turned another alley, then again, around a block, thinking it would circle back and allow him a glimpse of his pursuer. In the dim light, however, of the underground Rogue's Sector, and the rather misleadingly curved pathways, he realized with some consternation, after a while, that he appeared to have misjudged the immediate layout of his surroundings.

Basch sighed to himself, turned, and began to retrace his steps, only for four men to seemingly melt out of the narrow doorways of the buildings that sandwiched the alley, cudgels in hand. Cold eyes, and dispassionate masks; all men sported tell-tale signs of a street thug's life – pugilist's swollen ears, scars, impressive brawn, and discolored clothing; their stance as they faced him spoke of training in the gutters rather than in proper techniques. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I seek no trouble."

"'ear that, boys? The toff seeks nae trouble," the leader, a gaunt man, all corded muscle, drawled. Behind him, the men laughed – chuffed grunts of menace. "Aye, sad t'say, trouble's found ye. Ye've 'ad the poor luck o' steppin' onto our turf, good sir, an we mislikes that."

"Step aside, and I will leave," Basch drew his sword, gesturing with it. "Engage me and it will be with regret that I end your lives."

"Fancy words, aye?" The man smirked. "Boys."

The two men closest to him started forward. Basch relaxed his mind into the automatic technicalities of footwork and guard, thankful that the narrow street would make it difficult for him to be flanked. He dodged clear, when the nearest brute swiped heavily at him with a studded club; parried the follow-through from his interchangeable partner, flicked his blade around on the recovering arc and lay open the first thug's arm, then leaped back, sword back at ready. The injured one roared in pain and fury, lumbering forward, swinging his club madly. Easy enough, to feint to the side, duck the heavy club that would have smashed his skull against the grimy wall, had it connected, twist his blade in his hands, the palm of his free hand against the pommel, and drive the hilt up into the man's heart, just enough to kill, precision enough not to catch in the ribcage, then kick the gargling body off his sword.

The coppery stench of blood, as it splashed his arms and shirt – he flicked gore off his blade, as he straightened back into his stance, and inclined his head at the dead man's stunned companions.

"Ye… ye killed Big Cobs!" the gaunt man pointed a shaky finger at the corpse on the ground (spreading blood, and filth – his boots would be ruined).

"I gave fair warning," Basch pointed out, turning his narrowed-eyed stare to the other man who had attacked him – the thug took a step back, involuntarily.

The man sucked in a breath, then seemed to relax, suddenly, and smirk. "Ye'll regret that, v'raya. We be first intendin' t'give ye a gentle tap on the head, take yer purse, an' simply leave ye out t'be found in the Sector… but now, ye'll have t'die, an' slow."

An uncomfortable feeling from between his shoulder blades. Basch risked a look over his shoulder.

A bangaa bared teeth at him, a gun leveled in his direction. An open door, set unobtrusively in what he had thought was just a wall, to his right, told him exactly how he had been snuck up on.

"Now, drop yer blade."

Basch hesitated. On one hand, it made no logical sense – he had already been told he would be more or less tortured to death, were he to give in; what would being shot in the back do? And if he whirled and attacked, it was possible that the bangaa would miss (and better yet, accidentally shoot the thin man). On the other hand, there was the possibility, however small, of escape, if he were to evade death now…

Then a voice rumbled, "That's quite enough, Azlo."

Azlo turned – a dark-skinned, bald man with two blades across his back pushed past him, his gaze moving from Basch to the body, then to the bangaa. "This man is under my protection."

"Protectin' tourists now, Reddas?" Azlo sneered. "He walks into me ground, he pays the price."

"See it through and I have this feeling that you'll be paying in return, and high," the bald man said mildly, looking down pointedly at the body.

"Ye have nae say 'ere on the Upper, Reddas," Azlo growled. "An' 'e's wronged me fair an'…" the rest of his words were cut off in a yelp, as there was a gunshot, the bullet striking the ground inches from his foot, a chip of rock glancing free. "Z'arrek!"

Basch frowned, squinting, but could make out nothing in the dim light. Reddas, however, smirked behind his shoulder. "I'll be telling you something about this 'tourist', Azlo. He belongs to Sniper."

He blinked, just as Azlo paled; the other men also looked around hurriedly. "W-what? But he wears no mark!"

"Not yet," Reddas said, amiably. "So we'll be overlooking this little incident for now, eh?"

"Yes. Uh. Tell Sniper m'sorry, aye?" Azlo had turned quickly from brash to servile – his eyes flickered from shadow to shadow with nervous fright.

"I'll think about it," Reddas said, crooking his fingers at Basch. "You come along now. A merry chase you led me around the Dimmed Sector."

--

When they were nearly at the main street, Balthier stepped out of one of the darkened doorways, his gun at his back, falling into step with all the nonchalance in the world. "Thanks, Reddas."

"Hah! No problem there. I've been wanting to give Azlo some grief for a while now. Man thinks just because he owns five streets in the Rogue Sector, he owns Nabudis." Reddas snorted. "I got other business about, here. See you after." A sharp glance at Basch, and he added, "If you'll be bringing him with you to Dark, I'll appreciate it if you make him understand how it's supposed to be a secret, eh?"

Balthier rolled his eyes. Reddas chuckled, nodded absently to Basch, and stalked away, into the crowd. Alone with Balthier, the Knight suddenly couldn't think of a thing to say – he flushed slightly, as the pirate grinned at his tongue-tied silence, and forced his mouth to work. "You… you look well."

"As do you, though you have a remarkable lack of common sense, walking about the Sector by yourself, and off the street, at that."

"I could have killed…"

"And then never made it back to the street alive, I warrant," Balthier shrugged. "No matter. Azlo would put the word out that you're mine, and you likely won't be harassed any further."

He ducked his head at the warmth suffusing his neck and chest at the casual statement, oddly pleased. Balthier frowned at the bloody blade and shirt, then sniffed. "I'll best get you to Dark, where you can get changed."

--

The entrance to the Dark Sector was an unnoticeable curtain set behind a pillar in what appeared on first glance to be a potter's shop. Lamps barely illuminated a flight of steep, winding stairs, then to what appeared to be yet another bazaar, this one manned by rows of shifty-eyed bangaa and humans, hawking semi-legal and rare items from various countries – he recognized scent-weed from Archadia, charger barding from Dalmasca, rainbow eggs set in a row, even a shop with demon's flasks. Balthier nodded occasionally when people greeted him, leading him quickly past the bazaar to quieter streets. A residential area, Basch decided, populated with pointedly incurious denizens.

An alley, and a closed door. Balthier picked keys from his breeches and unlocked it. Once inside, Basch felt he had, given the month he had waited and the week he had taken to actually find the man who had been occupying his thoughts since their parting, endured enough, and pushed him against the wall, claiming lips with brutal ardor. The sky pirate moaned, rubbing against him, then smirked when they broke, panting, prodding his arm. "You smell of blood."

Distracted by grinding hips, Basch muttered, "If you have… washing facilities…"

Balthier nodded. "Piped shower. Fran's insistence." Lips crept up his neck, to his ear; and purred, "Need assistance?"

Basch's lip quirked. "Since I am unfamiliar with your home…"

"Then I will endeavor to be of as much… help… as possible, then."

--

Sleepy and half-curled on one of the over-stuffed couches in the living room of the narrow house with a lapful of mostly naked pirate, Basch was about to doze off, when Balthier began to wriggle, ostensibly to get more comfortable. The knight managed to endure about half a minute of judicious shifting, before he cleared his throat and wrapped his arms around a warm waist; heat, from an open, thin shirt, flesh against flesh – he wore only his breeches, and Balthier, only the shirt. "Stop."

"Tired already?" Balthier's smile was playfully mocking.

"I'm not as young as you are," Basch retorted. He had been a little stunned to discover, a month ago in Rabanastre, that Balthier was indeed fourteen years younger than he, and barely out of adolescence. "And I had to do most of the work."

"Hn." Balthier pursed his lips into a pout (though he would likely deny this if told, Basch sensed), but settled, a boneless, warm blanket that was a little too disturbingly light. Basch stroked fingers up from the waist to ribs, felt how they seemed a little too close to the skin, and sighed. His fingers were instantly pushed down, to the belly. "Tickles." The pirate shifted again, to pillow his head on a shoulder; warm air, regular against his chin.

Basch idly traced fingers down to flanks, gentle caresses. "Precisely when were you aware that I was in Nabudis?"

"When the entire, dreadfully shiny, noisy and semi-clad Dalmasca entourage arrived, of course. What with the parades in Princess Ashe's honor. A little difficult not to notice."

"And it did not occur to you to…"

"The terms, I recall, was that if you wanted your reparation, you were to find me," Balthier reminded him, with a fleeting, mischievous grin. "It took you remarkably longer than I thought to start bumbling around the Rogue's Sector."

"I am here technically on business," Basch observed, mildly, a little stung. "You could have simply come to see me, at the embassy."

"I do believe I am still a wanted man," the sky pirate said, rubbing his cheek against warm skin, absently. "Besides, it was more amusing this way. Even if you did manage to blunder into trouble."

He ignored that. "Do you normally live here?"

"I normally 'live' on the Strahl. You've seen her. Pretty thing."

"I meant…"

"Nabudis is but one of many ports of call. Reddas is agreeable enough to have someone maintain this place for us, 'tis all." Dryly, "You cannot truly tell, but he is technically the lord of the Dark Sector."

"Strangely named."

"Any scoundrel knows Nabudis is divided into the Blue, the Dimmed and the Dark. Light, half-light, night."

"I wouldn't have known had…"

"Ah, but someone like you, Basch… you belong only in the Blue." Balthier was doing something distracting with lips and tongue that made it difficult for Basch to focus on the semi-facetious assertion.

"Balthier." He gently lifted the sky pirate's chin. "Does that concern you?"

Balthier's eyes flickered away tellingly for a brief moment, before snapping back, features melting into lazy insouciance. "No."

Basch sighed, and rolled, such that he pinned the younger man down, settling his weight carefully on elbows. "Why does it concern you?"

"We're from totally different stratums of society," Balthier murmured, looking away.

"I was born a commoner."

"Curious. I was noble-born." Balthier smirked.

"I do not speak in jest."

"Neither do I. It doesn't change what we've both become."

"Did it matter in the first place?"

"It matters to me what you may see this," Balthier said, stubbornly. "I was from those circles, I know. Some of my peers, they liked to keep…" mistresses, or doxies, really, among the low-born or fallen, below the working class; cheaper than mistresses, easier to silence and buy.

Basch took a deep breath, for patience. "You're not my…"

"Pretty girl on your arm, coming off that royal airship."

Ah. "Balthier… Lady Sessa is the sister of my closest friend, Vossler."

Balthier's expression didn't change – his eyes flickered up to the ceiling. "Rich?"

"She is like a sister to me." Basch elaborated.

"Hn. Intelligent?"

"Balthier…" Another deep breath. "When I gave you that ring…"

His smile was sharp. "The neighbor to the left is one Miss Vaya. Pretty little trinkets she has, the most gorgeous necklaces. Three different men, I think. Clever girl."

"You're not my… I never saw it as… the ring was…" Basch bowed his head, until his tongue and temper were back under his control. Quietly, "Mark me."

"What?" Balthier blinked, startled, at the apparent non sequitur.

"Is it a tattoo, or a scar? I care not. That man… Azlo… said he did not see a… mark, that would say I was yours. I want to wear that."

Balthier stared at him, then began to chuckle, wryly, helplessly. "'Tis nothing so barbaric as a tattoo or a scar. For you, it'll be a necklace, or a bracelet. Reddas has all his… friends… who live in Dark that do the occasional bit of work for him identify themselves by facile nicknames and symbols. Those that belong to them can get past certain areas in Dark, 'tis all, if they wear such marks."

"Give me one, then." A frown. "What do you mean, 'for you'?"

"A friend would wear the mark around the left wrist… family, around the right; a servant, at the belt, a lover… at the neck." Balthier poked him in the chest. "But I am not sure."

"Neck." He lowered his head, and dragged his tongue along the column of Balthier's. "And if I should so see any other wearing this mark of yours, about their necks…"

"For someone who can be so gentle, you can be incredibly violent," the sky pirate muttered, though he seemed to relax.

"So. Where I belong, Balthier… is wherever you may be." A kiss, on flesh.

"Do you knights practice those sorts of lines before a mirror?" Mocking, but playful, again. A little flattered.

"And if I could, Balthier, I would give you all you wanted under Heaven, were you willing to stay only by my side."

"That sounded scripted."

A smirk, against his hip. "Women like such words, so Vossler has told me. To say one wishes to drape them in velvet as smooth and as dark as night, in silk as gossamer pale as the dawn, in satin as rich as the sunset; to put diamonds like stars in their hair; moonlight strands of pearls about their necks. To dress promises in pretty words; for aught else will they believe."

"You're trying… aah… now that's just insulting. I'm not a…"

"It seems a little womanish to worry so about trivialities."

"Aah… 'tis not… uhm…"

"Mm."

--

The Viera wrinkled their noses when Fran led them into the living room. Close inspection, despite the dimmed light, informed her as to the cause of the scent about the vicinity. She peered over the couch, and saw her Hume partner, limbs tangled with another male Hume who looked vaguely familiar. Both were in varying stages of undress, and sound asleep.

Ah, right. Rabanastre. At the sight of a silver chain around the larger Hume's neck, which led to a gleam of metal under Balthier's hair, Fran carefully pushed brown strands away, then smiled, faintly. A flat, rectangular pendant, etched with a hawk's wing. About time.

She straightened, turning back to the two Viera friends she had in Nabudis. "Come. We go to the Harvest tavern for drinks, instead."

"I would never have thought that you of all Viera could tolerate a Hume partner, Fran," Nalra murmured, as Fran ushered them out and closed the door. "They stink so, and are always in heat."

"They can be entertaining," Fran shrugged, making a mental note to drop subtle comments about sulking since observing public parades, blond male Humes and silver pendants later, perhaps when Balthier was drinking something hot.

-fin-