Words

He wonders if she knows.

Balthier has always relied on an elegant turn of phrase to get his point across, but somewhere in the tangle of flowery language his original meaning has gotten lost. Fran already puts down his endearments to mock-love, never noticing the caressing quality of his tone with each 'dear heart' that passes his lips.

He smirks to himself. Fran has proven surprisingly thick in matters of the heart for someone so intelligent. The woman can calculate the landing velocity of an airship within seconds, yet ask her why her partner fantasizes about combing out her silken hair and she would have no clue.

Perhaps it was his fault. When they first met, he had made it clear that their partnership was, just that, a business proposition and nothing more. Fran had been suspicious of his intentions, having rejected enough advances from hume males in bars, and it had taken much convincing [and nonchalance] on Balthier's part to assure her of his honourable intentions.

He chuckles. Sky pirating, honourable?

"You are amused, Balthier?" Fran asks beside him. Balthier swivels in the pilot's seat to look at his partner.

"I was just considering the respectability of our profession, my love," he replies easily. One would be surprised to discover that he is generally an honest man, and says exactly what he means in his own, roundabout sort of way.

"A change of heart from the sky pirate?" challenges Fran.

"I could never give up this charmed existence," says Balthier with a languid smile.

In the past few years they've been together, Balthier has noted that Fran has become quite adept at this dance of words, and yet some things still puzzle her.

"I too, have grown to love the sky," Fran says after a pause.

"Yes," Balthier agrees simply. Fran raises an eyebrow.

"In this, you do not hide behind your words," she notes.

"Quite possibly, you are surprised that I am capable of stopping after one syllable," he says casually, but he is suddenly awash with thought.

He had never thought of this dance as a distraction, but perhaps that is the reason why Fran cannot read him. His words, no matter what meaning is disguised within, sound nothing but flippant. He has to stop hiding behind them.

"Fran," he begins.

Fran looks at him closely, She can hear the change in his tone.

"What I meant to say was, this life I have, with you, I could never give it up." He takes her hand. "Fran, I-"

The door bangs violently open.

"Goddammit Vaan!" growls Balthier.

"Sorry Balthier!" says Vaan quickly, putting up his hands. "Just looking for Penelo."

"Well then, it seems your only course of action is to keep looking."

Vaan accepts the dismissal and flees the room. Balthier sighs and turns his attention back to Fran. She is finishing off a glass of water, her eyes remote. He knows the moment is gone. Idiot lad. Getting to his feet, he decides to follow his leading lady's example.

"Fran, I'm getting a drink. Do you wish for me to bring you something?" he asks. No response. Is she ignoring him? "Fran?"

Her furred ears twitch. "Yes?" she responds breathlessly. Balthier hears the sharp ring of glass striking the floor. What's this? The wise, beautiful and ever so coordinated Fran has dropped her glass?

"Do you want another drink?" Balthier asks, watching her carefully.

Yes, it is there. He can see her disappointment, as if she was expecting him to say something else entirely.