Though it was only early afternoon, the Aerodrome was packed with people, and it took more than ten minutes to proceed through the line. More than ten minutes of standing silently beside Balthier, who would not so much as glance at her – instead he faced forward, looking for all the world as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

She fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting the bag from one arm to the other. A knot of anxiety had formed in her stomach like a ball of lead. Her palms were sweaty, and she gnawed at the inside of her cheek and rolled her shoulders to relieve the tightness that gathered in the muscles there.

She knew how to deal with loud, aggressive anger. She'd done it often enough in the past three years, and she was adept at knocking swaggering louts to the floor if they had dared turn it on her. She knew how to block and dodge attacks, and she had grown more than proficient in the use of improvised weaponry.

This sort of anger was a new beast entirely – it was cold and seething, and it frightened her right out of her boots. She had no defenses against it, didn't quite understand what had provoked it, and had no idea how she was meant to react to it.

She had had quite enough confrontation and strife in her life already; was it too much to ask for just a little peace?

And there was a tiny voice just at the back of her mind that whispered how easy it would be to run – she could get lost in Balfonheim, perhaps even beg a lift from Tomaj back to Rabanastre. Just in the interest of self-preservation.

But that would make her a coward. And she had so badly wanted Balthier to be better, to be different. Character was rarely established in times of peace – it had to be challenged to show itself. And if she wanted to see who he truly was, she might never get a better opportunity.

She could always run. But if she did so now, without giving him the benefit of the doubt, she could never come back. And it would make her a lesser person than she wanted to be, a lesser person than she wanted to believe she could become. Perhaps she owed him that much; the chance to prove himself a better man than those she'd known.

She risked a peek at his face, and her heart sank – even the time they'd wasted waiting in line hadn't dulled the sharp edge of his anger. And she didn't think she could bear it if he did turn it on her.

The moment the Strahl's dock retracted, Penelo was overset by a flutter of panic. Nervous energy tingled down her spine, and she had to fight not to cringe when he approached, prepared to shy away from him as if he might lash out at her. But he merely slipped past her, heading to the deck to silence the incessant buzzing of the communications system – Vaan must be blowing up the line again.

She had expected him to let slip his less than pleasant temper when he returned; instead he lifted the bag from her arms and retreated to the kitchen in perfect silence. There was no tell-tale slamming of cabinets, no other outward signs of simmering rage, just the ordinary sounds of things being put in their proper places. With no small amount of trepidation she headed toward the kitchen, poking her head around the corner.

"Are you…still angry?" she ventured finally, clasping her hands behind her back.

"Furious," he confirmed. But his tone was light, and she didn't know whether to believe his words or his voice.

Perhaps this was her chance to leave him to his own devices for a while, at least until he'd had some time to calm down. "I'll just be in my room, then," she said, prepared to dash back down the hallway.

"No." This time his voice was firm, decisive. "Sit." He gestured to the chairs at the bar.

She stopped abruptly, torn – she could retreat anyway, of course, but the bedroom door had no lock, and he could always simply drag her back out. If he were so inclined. Which, by the look of his face, he was.

She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said, "If you're going to shout at me, I wish you'd just do it already."

"I'm not going to shout at you," he said. Again he gestured to the chair and said, "Sit."

She blinked. "You're not?" But his face…he certainly looked like he wanted to.

"What purpose would it serve?" he asked mildly. And then, "Penelo. Sit."

She sat, squirming in her seat like a child preparing to be chastised. "What are you going to do, then?" she asked.

"We are going to talk."

"I think I'd rather you shouted at me," she muttered, ducking her head.

He rummaged through the cabinets in search of glasses, retrieving two of them. He poured himself a glass of wine and her a glass of water, and she frowned as he passed it over the bar to her.

And she felt exceptionally sulky when she asked, "Why don't I get wine, too?"

"Because you've already had at least one ale that I know of, and I want you clearheaded." He rounded the bar and took a seat on the chair beside hers.

The silence stretched out, fraught with tension – mostly hers. She was afraid to look at him, afraid that she would still see that burning anger glowing in his eyes. He masked it well enough, kept it under a tight rein, but every man had a breaking point. She really, really didn't want to discover his.

"I think I have already demonstrated remarkable restraint," he said. "So you needn't cringe away as if I might strike you." His voice was silky soft and even, at complete odds with the hand that gripped his glass so hard she was afraid it might shatter in his palm.

"I don't know why you're so angry," she said. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"No, you haven't," he admitted. His tight grip on his glass loosened; he made a sound that might've been a sigh.

"Then why are you angry?" But she wasn't certain she wanted the answer to that just yet, and so she quickly followed it up with, "If anything, I should be angry with you!"

He made a half-amused sound in his throat. "How do you figure that?"

"You lied to me," she muttered. The glass of water was cool; she wrapped her hands around it to soak up the chill. Her temperature seemed to have ratcheted up ten degrees with embarrassment. "You said I wasn't broken, but –" Not something she wanted to admit to him. She averted her face, lifted her glass and drained half of it in one go.

"Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully, as if a vague suspicion had formed in his mind. "Perhaps you'd better tell me just what it was that I walked in on."

"That's none of your business!" she gasped, and her hand trembled when she set down her glass. It clattered against the countertop, and the harsh sound scraped across her raw nerves.

"I beg to differ," he said. "And, if you're going to call me a liar, I think I've got a right to know why."

A frustrated growl rumbled in her throat, and she scowled. "Fine! You want to know? I thought I could be normal again – I believed you when you said there was nothing wrong with me!"

"There is nothing wrong with you. There never has been." His voice was firm, resolute.

"Yes, there is," she snapped. "I asked Tomaj to kiss me, and I didn't feel anything!"

Balthier was torn between relief and fury; relief that she'd felt nothing and fury that she'd instigated that little tavern scene. "You asked him to kiss you?" he asked.

"How else was I supposed to know?" she muttered irritably. "And it didn't work – I'm not normal."

"Yes," he said, "you are." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. She tensed as if the touch had been an electric current, her gaze jerking to his. His fingers played across the delicate skin of her inner wrist. "You see? Your pulse races when I touch you."

Her lips parted on a shocked exhale, but her breaths had shallowed as if she'd been running. Her throat worked desperately, as if trying to swallow past a lump. "Tomaj is handsome," she said defensively. "I should have felt something." She didn't try to extricate her wrist from his grasp; she merely stared at his hand on her wrist as if it represented a problem she had no solution for. "I don't understand why you're so angry about it."

"Penelo," he said patiently. "You were kissing another man. Why do you think I am angry?"

For a moment she stared in mute incomprehension, baffled. His fingers lazily stroked her wrist, the touch almost…proprietary. Her mouth dropped open, and she said, "No. You weren't…you weren't…" But she couldn't form the word, couldn't quite believe it.

He had lost patience with her prevarication. His voice dropped to a rough growl as he said, "You said that I didn't want you five years ago." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her wrist. "I assure you that isn't true."

She jerked, shocked. Her chest rose and fell in harsh breaths; a tide of color swept over her, burning hotly in her cheeks. "But you never said anything."

"What should I have said?" he bit off. "You were seventeen, practically a child. You'd never been out of your tiny corner of the world, you knew nothing of the world beyond the walls of Rabanastre. And there were more important things to focus on – namely, not dying." He made a raw sound of fury deep in his throat. "But you're not a child any longer. You're experienced enough to recognize jealousy when you see it – so don't sit there and tell me you don't understand why I'm angry that it took only three days for you to go from me to another man."

Her head whirled; his words clanged around inside it, not quite making sense. He was jealous? He was this angry simply because she'd solicited a kiss from another man? And he was angry still; he seethed with it, and even if he had not shouted, that controlled aggression would have to be let loose sooner or later. She was a little bit terrified of what would happen when it did.

She floundered for words, uncertain whether or not she owed him an apology, whether she would give him one even if she did. "I didn't know," she said at last, lamely. "I mean – for the last three days, you haven't said anything or done anything." He hadn't so much as touched her.

He scoffed. "You would have worked yourself into a panic if I had," he said. "I thought you would appreciate time to process with no additional pressures – I had no idea you would go off half-cocked, looking for someone on whom to test your wiles." His mouth was drawn in exasperation; his eyes glowed with feverish intensity.

"Test my wiles?" she repeated, incredulous. "For the gods' sake – it was just a kiss!"

But to him it had been a threat; the mere mention of the word set that muscle back to ticking in his cheek. Nothing had blunted the sharp edge of his anger; not her explanation, not the admission that it had not affected her. Her heart thudded in her chest, alarm skittering up her spine as he released her wrist. There was a gleam in his eyes that made a warning trill in her head, had her tensed at the edge of her seat, poised to run.

And he knew it, too. She could see it in his face; he knew exactly what a coward she was.

He made an effort to modulate his tone. "You will always have a choice with me," he said. "Right now you have two: you can run that way –" he gestured toward the corridor, to the safety of her room, "–and this discussion ends and will never be revisited. Or you can run that way –" He gestured this time to the deck, "–and I will chase you. I will catch you. And this time, I swear I will make you scream."

She jolted from her seat, flustered and confused by her visceral reaction to the calmly spoken words. Her skin felt tight and hot; her breath came in short pants. She patted at her burning cheeks, mortified by the liquid heat that had gathered low in her belly, that just those carefully chosen words could evoke a riot of emotions.

She skittered backwards a few steps, although he had not made the slightest move in her direction. He only watched her with acute interest, observing that she had not yet chosen a direction.

"You're…you're still angry." Anxiety skyrocketed, spiked through the roof – she could hear the pounding of her blood in her ears, feel it surge through her veins.

"Extremely." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "But I would never harm you."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him so badly. She swallowed hard, conflicted – she had wanted to give him a chance to prove himself better, and this would most certainly be the moment of truth.

She could run to safety, but then she would never know. She could always run later, but she couldn't come back once she did.

And so she hoped to the gods that he wouldn't disappoint her, and she fled.

To the deck.

She careened onto the deck, Balthier's exultant laughter echoing in her ears. In the heat of the moment she had forgotten a crucial detail – the Aerodrome was packed. At least thirty people walked the aisles, traveling to or from their own airships.

Balthier's boots pounded on the wood floor of the corridor, and he appeared a moment later.

"Wait!" she squeaked, holding out a hand to halt his progress. "There are people out there!"

"Yes," he said. "They can't see in. The glass has a privacy coating." He stalked her like a cat with a mouse, chasing her back toward the pilot's chair – just as he had said he would.

"I can see them," she said.

Supremely unconcerned, he offered only, "Then close your eyes." His hand snatched up her wrist, dragged her across the space that separated them, and she hitched up against his chest. He released her wrist to tunnel his hands into her hair, angling her head, and she braced herself for the inevitable – he would unleash that fury, smash his lips against hers in a brutal travesty of a kiss.

Instead, he brushed his lips just at the corner of her mouth, a mere whisper of a caress.

With a sob of relief, she wilted against him, trepidation melting away like snow in the sun. Her arms rose to curl around his neck, and she lifted herself onto her toes. One of his hands cupped her chin, and his thumb stroked along her cheek.

"I'm not always going to be gentle," he said roughly. "But you never have to fear that I will hurt you."

She could feel him against her belly, and she moved restlessly against him, squirming to get closer. She shivered as he pressed his lips to her throat, her hips arching to his, and his breath caught on an agonized groan.

He eased her away, and his voice was a harsh rasp from between clenched teeth. "Can't hold out," he said. "I swear to you, I'll make it good." He turned her around, and the pilot's chair pressed against her stomach. And still he urged her forward, bending her over it.

She whispered his name in confusion, and he soothed her with a murmur, leaning down to press a comforting kiss to the back of her neck, even as he clasped her hands, stretching them out to wrap them around the armrests. She fidgeted, uncertain – but he leaned over her, trailing a reverent hand down the slope of her back, whispering praise in her ear. His palm cupped her hip, slid across her belly, and then delved beneath the waistband of her pants, and she shuddered as his fingers touched her, discovered the revealing dampness between her thighs.

He muttered something against the back of her neck that sounded like, "Thank the gods," and she made a strangled sound as his fingers slipped inside her, rising onto her toes to entice him to linger.

He didn't. She whimpered her displeasure, rocking back as he removed his hand. And then his fingers discovered the tiny silver zipper that held her pants snug against her hips, and she heard the rasp of it sliding down – his hands seized the fabric of her pants, dragging it down over her hips until it hit mid-thigh.

A frisson of alarm pierced her brain. "What –"

One of his hands cupped her shoulder, squeezing in silent reassurance. She heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his own zipper. She felt him brush against her bottom as he bent over her, heard his voice at her ear as he said, "Hold on, darling."

And she gasped, her nails biting into the varnished wood of the armrests as he slid smoothly inside her, and she realized abruptly that he had been holding back before. Her arms trembled, and she whispered, "Oh, gods."

He wasn't gentle, and she didn't care. There were people milling around outside, and she didn't care. And she seethed with frustration, because he pressed his knee into the fabric of her pants caught between her legs, pulling it tight and pinning her there, motionless. She wanted to move, needed to move. But he wouldn't let her; he kept her caught fast with the weight of his body, with the pressure of his knee between her legs, and she could only grip the armrests and brace herself for the coming storm.

This time, she wasn't certain she would survive it. The fury that gripped him translated into the rough clutch of his hands on her hip and her shoulder, holding her steady to receive each sure thrust. If she had had the presence of mind, she might've been frightened by the intensity – but her thoughts had narrowed to the harsh breaths that tore from his throat, to the tormented sounds that broke from her own.

And every stroke touched something deep inside her, whipping her into a frenzy of tortured desire.

Her breath came in ragged pants, her knees shook with the effort to keep herself on her toes, and her palms were slipping on the armrests. "Please," she whimpered. "Please."

He managed a half-chuckle as he slid his palm down her belly, stroking her even as he drove himself deep inside her.

She shattered.

She screamed.

Outside the Strahl, a dozen or so people traversing the concourse paused, searching for the source of the phantom sound, but none of them gave the Strahl anything more than a cursory glance, a fact for which she would have been grateful had she been able to do anything more than suffer the intense contractions that seized her.

Through a wave of bliss she heard his groan at her ear, felt his hips jerk and his arms clench around her. And then he shuddered, and his chest pressed against her back, rising and falling with the rapid breaths that sizzled against her ear. Her over-sensitized skin prickled with gooseflesh; she didn't think she was going to be able to remain standing on her own.

For a moment neither of them moved. She struggled to draw air into her burning lungs, shivering helplessly as he nuzzled the nape of her neck, his satisfied smile searing her skin. And then he lifted himself away, and she groped for the back of the chair, locking her knees in a desperate effort to remain standing.

She didn't know why, but she felt a bit like crying. It might've been relief that, despite his obvious anger, he hadn't hurt her. Or, at least, that might've been part of it – it had taken a great deal of faith to take the risk that she had.

She wasn't used to acting on faith.

He righted their rumpled clothing, his hands gentle as he slid her pants back up over her hips and then carefully pried her fingers loose of their death grip on the back of the chair, turning her to face him.

"Are you still angry?" she murmured, her gaze affixed to the hollow of his throat, where his rapid pulse beat a hard tattoo. He was too close; she could feel the heat of his body even through her own clothing, and his hands had settled on her shoulders with firm pressure, as if prepared to catch her should she fall.

"Perhaps a bit," he acknowledged, and she heard the grit in his voice, the rough remnants of intemperate emotions. His lips touched the top of her head, stirring her mussed hair. His arms slid around her, easing her closer to his chest, feeling the tremor that ran through her.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shirt front, breathing in the scent of his aftershave, the warm, clean scent of his soap. It collected in her lungs, steadying her, grounding her as much as his strong arms.

"No, I'm sorry." His lips touched her temple, drifted across the delicate skin to her forehead. "I didn't mean – I hope I didn't –" His voice faded into a low growl of frustration, unable to complete the thought.

He thought he had scared her, she realized. Or maybe he thought he had hurt her – or both. Beneath her cheek she felt the tightness of his muscles pulled taut and tense, but his hands were so gentle on her back, on the nape of her neck where his fingers stroked and played in her hair. He was afraid – afraid he had given her a promise that he had promptly broken, afraid he had violated her trust, violated her.

"You didn't," she murmured, and she felt his tension splinter, felt the reassured sigh he heaved. His arms contracted around her, and she heard the low rumble of his voice muffled against her hair, unintelligible – but the thread of relief running through it was clear.

She wanted to arch into the soft caress of his fingers on her neck, but when she pushed up onto her toes, her knees buckled. She would have collapsed if not for his arm at her back, and she clutched at his shoulders, embarrassed. Rather than steadying her on her feet, he swept her into his arms, and she made a soft sound of surprise in her throat.

"Oh," she said, self-consciously. "I'm fine, really – you don't have to –"

But he silenced her with a kiss, stealing the words from her mouth. Dimly, she was aware that he was moving, that they had left the deck and he was proceeding past the kitchen and down the corridor. She didn't know how he had managed it, since he certainly wasn't paying attention to where he was going.

She heard a door open, and the light from the corridor faded away. Darkness pressed in around her, and her equilibrium was knocked askew as he shifted her in his arms. There was the rustle of blankets, and her back touched cool covers over a firm mattress. The scent of his soap washed up around her, and her senses reeled. Through the slatted blinds over the window, only a soft trickle of light struggled in – not enough to see him clearly, but enough to see the shadow of him leaning over her.

His hands skimmed up her belly, sliding beneath her shirt, easing it upward. He had braced himself between her thighs, and a surge of sensation tingled through her, tiny licks of flame following the path his fingers slowly traversed up her chest.

His lips teased hers, and she shivered, adrift in the cool embrace of the darkness, in the hot caress of his hands on her bare skin. "Now – I'm going to make it up to you," he said, his voice a velvety murmur that stroked across her every sensitive nerve-ending.

He said the words with all the lush sweetness of a promise, but she could almost take them as a threat. How much more could she possibly take?

And she feared that the answer was far too simple: whatever he would give.

Balthier woke some hours later to a rhythmic sound from the corridor – someone was tapping at the Strahl's hull. For a moment he thought perhaps that Vaan had caught up with them at last, but he disregarded that almost immediately. Vaan wouldn't content himself with a gentle tap; he'd be pounding viciously away.

Penelo was still asleep, thoroughly exhausted, her body curled up against his side. She made a soft sound of irritation as he eased himself away, her fingers stretching across the mattress in search of him until at last she surrendered with a tiny murmur of discontent and turned her face into the pillow he'd vacated. In the darkness he stumbled into a pair of trousers, then padded silently to the deck, jamming the button that would engage the dock. As the mechanism whirred, he headed for the rear of the ship.

A young man stood on the dock, dressed in the uniform of an Aerodrome steward. "Message for you, sir," he said, extending a sheet of paper. "It was sent out to all Aerodromes this afternoon to be held until it reached you."

Balthier snagged the paper, examining the return address – his solicitor. "My thanks," he said absently, as the steward gave an obsequious little bow and turned to leave.

Balthier stalked back onto the ship as he scanned the lines, his face drawing into a scowl. With one hand he massaged the tense muscles at the back of his neck – with the other, he crumpled the note in his fist, casting it into the kitchen waste basket.

His father's wife had expired at last, the miserable old bat.

But she had left no living relatives, and there was no one to see to her burial arrangements. No – that unwelcome task fell squarely upon Balthier's shoulders.

Even in death, she managed to sink her vicious claws into him. And yet, he couldn't summon an emotion other than annoyance; she had managed to shadow his otherwise perfectly pleasant evening.

He made a rough sound of aggravation, as he closed up the ship again – no matter; it would all keep until morning. After all, she was hardly going anywhere.

Penelo murmured something as he slipped back into bed, sighing as he drew her close once again, her head settling on his shoulders, her soft limbs tangling with his.

He brushed her hair away from her face, relishing the warmth of her small body soaking into his. "Shh," he soothed, sliding an arm beneath her to secure her against his side. "Dawn's a long way off, yet."