A/N - Hello there! Just wanted to thank everyone who has ever read or reviewed my story. This is especially for you! ~Also, I may have gotten distracted by a certain game called Dragon Age: Origins, which was amazing. Ok, ok, Alistair may be cute, and a bit hilarious, but in the suavity stakes Balthier is a fair distance ahead, I'll say that much. My arm is in a cast as we speak, so please don't be too harsh on me...
Lucky
He has never called himself a lucky man.
Balthier and his partner plan all sorts of spectacular heists together, plans so risky that it's a wonder they manage to pull off a single one. And yet they do. Knowledge of meticulous details factors into it somewhat. Often, as they are watching, Fran will whisper to him which guards favour coffee, which have had a drink or two and so on, and he tries not to show how ticklish that makes him. Professional whenever on the job, as always. They take all of this into account and learn to recognise those who are more alert, and therefore dangerous.
Luck has never factored into it. Into any of it.
When Balthier was a young lad, his dream was to follow his father in the pursuit of science. Dr Cid often did not have time to spend with his son, so young Ffamran imagined it would be rather marvelous working side by side. Unfortunately for him, there was the not too insignificant issue of his father's insanity. If he was one of those other boys, the lucky ones with a real mother and father, maybe he could have been whatever he wanted to be.
He shakes his head, as if to remove the thought from his head. He has not been Ffamran for a long time now, and fathers could be done without. He should get back to sorting out the finances. The Strahl was not the cheapest lady to fly, by no means. If only his admirers knew about the less glamorous side of sky pirating! Fran has certainly teased him about it often enough, though today she has been rather silent about the whole thing.
"Fran, what are you doing over there? Do you remember how much oil we collected from that Bergemont chap?" Balthier asks, aiming his question in the direction of the couch.
No response.
"Fran?" he asks again.
He peers over the top, and sees her on her side and fast asleep. She looks so peaceful. One arm rests underneath her head, the other curled into her chest. Brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, all thoughts of childhood and oil and airships passes from Balthier's mind.
He quietly shuffles off in search of a blanket. He is quite certain they have at least one. After all, how could he forget that horrible, crocheted mass of wool that Fran found at the market and became attached to? He rifles to the back of the cabinet, finally locating it.
Still trying to be quiet, he re-enters the room and gently covers her with it.
Fran's nose twitches. She sneezes. "I fell asleep?" she wonders, sitting up with the ease an grace of one who is used to waking up with their wits about them. She turned to her companion. "You did not wake me, Balthier?"
"Believe me, my dear, I made the attempt, however you were too far gone," he insists.
"We have work to do, do we not?" She looks down, seeming to notice the blanket. "Ah, this is...my favourite," she says, running her fingers through the gaudy woolen colours.
"I am still at a loss as to why you bought that," Balthier mutters.
Fran eases herself back onto the couch, merely commenting that it was warm, and by far the warmest thing she owns. And it wasn't metal.
"Go to sleep Fran," he says quietly. "I'll wake you up when we're finished here."
As he slides the last of the papers back into the draw, the lantern is burning low and dim. He glances towards Fran on the couch and once again, hasn't the heart to wake her. So he gathers her long-limbed body into his arms and carries her off to her bedroom.
Carefully, he slides her under the blankets, planting a light kiss on her forehead. Yes, it is a rather sentimental gesture, but he can be a sentimental man when moments like these let him forget that his father never cared, and that at the end of a day spent marauding the skies, there's always paperwork to do. He will have to make up for these thoughts by acting especially cantankerous next time he sees that little scamp Vaan.
The nightstand candle flickers slightly, guttering under the wind that seeps beneath the cracks in the windowpane. Balthier climbs into his side of the bed before it goes out, listening to Fran breathing calmly and peacefully, and feels oddly calm and peaceful himself.
He has never been a lucky man, merely fortunate.