He had kept his grip on her hand, interlacing their fingers to hold hers fast as though he feared she might yet slip free and make a run for it. She wasn't inclined to do so, but was a bit gratified to realize that he hadn't simply assumed she would so favor him.

"I hope you enjoyed your shopping trip," he said, rubbing his thumb over hers.

She shrugged, pursing her lips to quell the smile that threatened. "It served its purpose." They had made it through the palace gates without incident, and once they reached the main thoroughfare, Balthier lifted his free hand to hail a cab.

"Did you leave me enough even to cover the cost of a cab, I wonder?" he asked, but there was no anger in his voice, nor even a hint of reproof. In fact, she thought there might even have been a bit of satisfaction, as if he were amused by her thievery. She'd run through an obscene amount of his money, and it had pleased him.

She didn't think she would ever understand men.

"I didn't bother to count," she said. "So you might as well, because we'll be walking otherwise."

"No, I think not – I'd rather not take the chance of putting my foot in it again while you've yet the opportunity to slip away." He handed her into the cab that had stopped before them. "I keep a petty change fund stashed aboard the Strahl; it'll see us through well enough until I can be reasonably certain you won't go walkabout while I nip off to the bank."

She settled into her seat, well on her way to exhaustion – and it was only early afternoon. "I said I would stay," she said as he climbed in beside her and gave their direction to the driver.

"Yes, but you were angry with the both of us. I thought perhaps you might've said so to stave off Vaan, and from there it wasn't a particular difficult leap to suspecting you might've also intended to placate me long enough to make a run for it." He was careful to keep a respectable distance between them, as if he were attempting not to encroach upon her space, and she recalled how she had pulled away from him earlier in the day and wondered if perhaps he had drawn away so that she would not.

"If I were interested in placating you," she said, "I wouldn't have stolen your pocketbook and spent the vast majority of your money. I think I expected you to be at least a little mad."

His lips twitched as if he were holding back a smile. "Anyone who cannot hold onto his money deserves to lose it – including myself." He draped an arm over the back of the seat, and his fingertips brushed her hair. "It was pocket change, anyway."

Fran had been right; he was proud. She brushed her hair over her shoulder so that it draped over the back of the seat and fixed her gaze ahead – in the rearview mirror she could see that his hand had dipped over the seat, and she felt a tiny pull and knew he'd taken up rubbing the strands between his fingers.

"Vaan said you had called a few days ago," he said. "And that you wished to speak with Fran." His voice was colored with what might've been concern, and she suspected he was agonizing over whether or not Fran had shared his secrets.

"I did," she said, and let her silence thereafter speak for itself.

After his comment failed to elicit the response he had been seeking, he made a rough sound in his throat and tried again. "I believe that would have been the night you polished off an entire bottle of wine on your own."

She squinted, canting her head to one side, as if trying to peer into the past. "It might've been," she said noncommittally.

"You've no intention of telling me what you spoke with her about, have you?" he asked, exasperated with her lack of candor.

"Not particularly, no," she admitted. "Some things are sacred. Girl talk is one of them." The cab took a turn, and the Aerodrome loomed in the distance, towering over most of the buildings in the city. She heard Balthier's sharp exhale and knew he was trying to devise a way to extract the information from her anyway.

"I was only curious as to whether or not she had said anything to you that may have lead to your...er, interest in discovering the bottom of a bottle," he said at last.

"Hm?" She turned wide, guileless eyes on him. "What could she have said that would lead to that?"

His eyes narrowed minutely, studying her face for signs of dishonesty. But she had played countless hands of cards over the past three years, risking her hard-earned money on the turn of a card and the impassivity of her expression. She could bluff with the best of them, had she the need. And she certainly didn't want him to learn what Fran had confessed before she was ready to confront it herself.

And she wasn't. Not yet.

"She told you nothing that upset you?" he asked. "You drank yourself into a dreadful hangover for no particular reason?"

"I like wine," she said with a shrug. "The wines Bartaan stocked were mostly vinegar. It's been a long time since I've had decent wine; I overdid it a little."

Whatever he saw in her face he must have determined to be the truth, for he let the matter drop, and she saw the lines that creased his brow relax. As long as he thought his secrets were safe, so, relatively, was she.

The cab pulled to a stop just outside the Aerodrome, in the wide circle at the end of the street intended for passenger loading and unloading. Balthier fished his pocketbook from his pocket and was pleased to find she'd left enough to cover the cab fare. Barely. She really had cleaned him out.

"I think I'm a bit disappointed that you didn't purchase anything for yourself," he said as he slid out of the cab, offering her his hand to help her out.

Her brows lifted. "I didn't need anything; Yulia did." He did not relinquish her fingers as she climbed out, curling his around hers still more securely.

She'd protested his purchase of hardly over a week's worth of clothing for her, but she'd sunk a fortune into a month's worth for Yulia? "There had to be well over a dozen bags," he said. "She needed that much?"

"Well…probably not," she said. "But did you see her dress? It was patched and patched over again." She blew out a breath. "I thought she deserved some nice things. After all, she suffered Raen for years. And I was angry with you."

"Deservedly so." His thumb made a pass over her wrist. "Still, even if you needed nothing, you might've seen your way to purchasing something you wanted."

"Are you chastising me for not spending more of your money?" she asked, with an incredulous laugh. "Look, you have to understand, I don't usually think of things in terms of wanting them," she said. "I grew up on the streets; I learned to pinch gil until they screamed. There was no use in wanting things when we could rarely afford the things we needed. So it's hard for me to look at luxuries and think about owning them. It's much easier to have nothing if you learn never to wish for more."

His hand had tightened on hers almost to the point of pain; she glanced up at his face to see his jaw taunt, his mouth compressed into a firm line. He hadn't liked hearing that, she realized with a frisson of surprise. She didn't know why it should bother him – it was just a fact of her life, a simple explanation for her frugality – but he had reacted like she'd uttered some heinous blasphemy.

She found herself mumbling an apology, which only served to irritate him further.

"When you say things like that, it makes me want to –" But he broke off abruptly with a harsh sound of impotent anger.

"What?" she asked, flustered.

"Nothing." His voice was a growl, rough and grating. "Never mind. It's not important."

Spoil her. He wanted to spoil her. He had gotten the distinct impression that the things that they considered luxuries differed vastly, and he was certain that when he discovered each new difference, he was bound to be furious all over again.

She hadn't purchased for herself a single godsdamned thing. Because she hadn't even thought of it. Because she'd deliberately trained herself not to want anything. Because her childhood had been so full of insecurity and uncertainty that wanting anything was a fruitless endeavor she could ill afford. And she couldn't possibly understand why it made him so unbearably angry that she had normalized it in her mind, until it was a story she could repeat without inflection, as if it were only an anecdote and not a travesty.

The worst of it was that she had no idea what had upset him, and there was no way for him to explain it to her without revealing more than she would wish to hear. He didn't fool himself that she was in any way prepared for such a thing – even if she had elected to stay aboard the Strahl, it was entirely possible, perhaps even likely, that she simply preferred his company to Vaan's at the moment. And she'd yet to earn enough gil to strike out on her own.

It was, perhaps, the only thing that had kept her aboard. He didn't flatter himself that she would elect to stay for any other reason than that. Not yet, anyway – not with the anxiety that had wreathed her face only this morning.

Like as not, she would never be willing to take that sort of leap again, not when she had suffered consequences so severe for her misplaced faith. Even if she had put a small measure of trust in him, it would never be enough. Not for either of them.

He wanted everything. And she would always have one foot out the door, positioned to flee before the trap could slam shut upon her once more. It was an untenable situation. He had nothing to offer her that she wanted, nothing with which to tempt her into staying.

He supposed he was lucky that she had no knowledge of the bent of his thoughts – thank the gods that Fran hadn't been indiscreet – or she surely would have gone fleeing in abject terror.

Instead she only sighed as they boarded the Strahl, as if the day had worn heavily upon her shoulders. "I really need a shower," she said, turning towards Fran's room.

He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Use mine," he said.

She turned, brows arched, mouth rounded in surprise. "Why? Fran's got a lot more toiletries than you do."

"You'd smell like her," he said. "The next town we visit, we shall find you your own toiletries." And some other things as well. She ought to have her own nightclothes that hadn't been borrowed from amongst Fran's things…even if he didn't expect her to get much use out of them.

She tilted her head to the side, brows drawing together in confusion. "But I don't need –"

"Yes, I know, you don't need them. But couldn't you find your way to wanting them?" He had only confused her further; she stared at him blankly, perplexed.

She drew in a breath and pressed her lips together for a moment. At last she said, "Why would it bother you if I smell like Fran?" It was a challenge; she lifted her chin, daring him to respond.

And he did – but not, perhaps, in the way she had expected. He slid his hand down her arm slowly, collecting her hand in his. With a swift tug, she stumbled across the space separating them, gasping as his free arm slid around her waist to pull her close. Her free hand settled against his chest to steady herself, and the hand that he clasped in his flexed, but to his immense gratification she did not try to pull it away.

He gave her every chance to protest as he bent his head, and though her breath hitched in her chest, she didn't make a single sound that could possibly be construed as objection. Instead, her fingers tightened on his and she lifted herself onto her toes. And her lips were so impossibly soft beneath his, parting with only the barest of encouragement. She made a tiny sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, tilting her head to find a better angle, leaning into his chest, her whole body softening.

"Imagine," he said, pulling away a fraction of an inch, "that I smelled like Vaan."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. She said, "Point taken," as she extracted herself from his arms. And then she crossed the hall, pushed open his door, and disappeared within his room, and a moment later there was the creak of turning taps and the rush of running water.

He had intended to leave her in peace, but as he turned to head for the deck, the muffled strains of a bawdy tavern song drifted through the door. He covered his mouth to stifle his laughter, wondering if she had any idea that the song she had chosen was filled with thinly-veiled innuendoes – hence its popularity amongst the tavern-going population.

His good intentions went up in smoke; he abandoned all thought of getting the Strahl in the air and instead slipped into his room. She'd left the bathroom door open a crack, and wispy tendrils of steam crept through, turning the air heavy and damp. He shrugged out of his vest and shirt and took a seat at the edge of his bed to remove his boots, and at last pulled open the bathroom door.

The mirror had fogged over, and the air was thick with steam. It beaded on his leather trousers, misting them with a fine sheen of water. Through the hazy glass of the shower door, he could see that Penelo's back was to him; she stood beneath the heavy onslaught of the water, scrubbing her fingers through her hair, on the last verse of her indecent song. He admired the dip of her waist, the smooth slope of her back.

She couldn't hear the faint sounds his trousers made as he peeled them off and flung them away, didn't notice the slow slide of the shower door opening. She did notice when his hands cupped her shoulders, and her song died on her lips with the startled shriek she issued. She recovered quickly enough, though she did not turn to face him.

She gave a little sniff of offended modesty. "Invading my privacy – have you no shame?"

"Very little," he admitted easily, surmising from the way that her shoulders arched into the gentle pressure of his fingers that she was more annoyed that he'd managed to surprise her than angry that he'd joined her in the shower. "I assure you, my trespass is on purely academic grounds." He grabbed the bar of soap, rubbing it between his hands to work up a foamy lather, then set back to sweeping his hands over her shoulders, up the slender column of her neck, and down her back.

"Academic?" she echoed, in a doubtful tone.

"Mm. I had to discover where you learned that song, and whether or not you were aware –"

"That it's filthy?" She snickered. "Of course I knew." She shivered as his hands cupped her hips, sliding along her water-slicked skin. "I know lots of those songs; anyone who frequents taverns would. For some reason, men just love them."

"Mm," he said. "I think I shall have to request a list of all the vulgar songs in your repertoire. Intellectual curiosity, you understand." His palm flattened on her belly, unwilling to encroach further without clearing the air enough to merit it. "Are you still angry with me?"

"A bit," she murmured, but there was a smile in the warmth of her voice.

He scraped her sodden hair over her shoulder, bent to kiss the nape of her neck. "Scale of one to ten?"

Her shoulders shook; she lifted one hand to cover her mouth as she disguised a laugh with a cough. "Four," she said.

"Four," he repeated contemplatively. "I believe I can work with four."

Penelo awoke at some point in the night with the realization that she had been alone in Balthier's bed for some time. The space beside her had cooled, and his pillow no longer bore the indention of his head upon it. By the purr of the Strahl's engines and the lack of any discernible light peeking through the slatted blinds, she guessed that Balthier had risen to set a course away from Archades.

She turned over, stretching out on her stomach. Balthier would return eventually, and the gentle hum of the engines was soothing enough to lull her almost back to sleep. She was perhaps a minute or two away from nodding off when the soft murmur of voices broke over the white noise of the engines. Curiosity compelled her to climb out of bed, wrap herself in the blanket, and creep to the door. She pushed it open just a sliver, relieved that the well-oiled hinges betrayed not so much as a creak.

From the crack she could see straight down the corridor onto the deck, though only a portion of the pilot's chair was visible from her angle. A slice of his right shoulder rose above the back of the chair; his legs were stretched out to prop his bare feet upon the dash.

Though the volume had been lowered, ostensibly to avoid disturbing her slumber, she could still make out Fran's voice over the speakers. "If you are asking for any sort of assurance, I cannot give it to you. She holds her cards close to her chest."

The chair squeaked just a bit as Balthier rocked it back, clenching his hand into a fist. "Surely she must've said something. You were out for hours."

"She did not." A moment of hesitation. "Although I don't know that I would tell you even if she had."

"Blast it, Fran – whyever not?" His voice was a guttural growl, and yet still carefully modulated.

"Surely she deserves the privilege of privacy," Fran said, "having had so little of it of late."

He made a rough sound in his throat, uncurled his fist to clutch at the armrest instead. "If she would only tell me…"

"And why should she do that," Fran asked, "when you've said nothing to her? What reason have you given her to do so? Should she forget the lesson she's spent these last years learning over and over again at the hands of another man simply for your convenience?"

At the reminder of Raen's very existence, Balthier released a low sound of raw fury. "I wish I had killed him," he muttered.

"I imagine Penelo is rather pleased you did not. If you had, you would have taken her revenge from her. Death is far too swift and merciful; his punishment will be excruciating for one such as him."

"I know," he said. "I know." He sighed heavily. "But she loved him, and he nearly destroyed her. I think I could kill him for that alone. For failing to appreciate what he had. For treating her like a commodity to be bought and sold."

"One would think you were jealous that another man managed to hold her love, however briefly," Fran said, a faint thread of mocking amusement running through her voice.

"Of course I'm bloody well jealous," he snapped, and then fell abruptly quiet, the silence hanging in the air. Penelo saw his hand come up to scrub at his face. "Blast. How long have you known?"

"Oh, longer even than you, I expect," she said. "Your fascination ought to have guttered out within weeks. Instead it blazed like a star for years, despite your distance. How could I not have known?"

The silence drew out once again, thick and deep. At last he said, "She purchased nothing for herself today."

"I noticed as well," Fran said. "I don't think the thought even occurred to her."

"It did not," he said. "Because she has accustomed herself to wanting nothing." A frustrated sound scratched out of his throat. "She said that it is easier to have nothing if one never allows oneself to want anything."

"A pity that you cannot win her with wealth alone," Fran said dryly. "Character comes not so cheaply."

The chair creaked. "What am I to do?" he asked, his voice laden with sullen uncertainty. "I find myself angry that she has gone without, that she found it necessary to develop defense mechanisms to fool herself into believing that she could be satisfied having nothing." His breath hissed out on a furious exhale. "I've lost sleep in wondering if she has ever been cold or hungry or afraid, and I lack the courage to ask because I'm certain the answers would wreck me."

"Balthier, everyone has been those things at one point or another," Fran offered indulgently.

He made a scathing sound. "She should not have been. Someone ought to have protected her." A pause; his head dipped forward, his palm cupped his cheek. "I ought to have protected her."

"I believe you did, in your own way," she said. "It takes a great deal of strength to let someone go when you wish to keep them. Five years ago you might well have smothered her, even with the best of intentions. Now, I think she's come into her own enough not to let you."

"I don't want to smother her," he said on a rueful chuckle. "And she'd gut me if I tried. I…" He hesitated, his voice lowering to a dispirited murmur. "I only wish I knew how to make her happy. How to make her stay."

"Ah, well, that may come – but you will need to cultivate a new skill in the meantime," Fran said.

"And what would that be?"

"Patience," she said. "Expect no more than you've earned. Understand that a woman in her position will be twice as hesitant to throw in her lot with yours. You are not the sort to inspire blind confidence."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm walking a razor-thin line. If I should push her too far, she will go, and if she goes…" A harsh sound escaped him. "If she goes, she will take all the color with her. It'll all go grey again. Empty." His hand settled over the armrest, his fingertips tapping out an unsteady rhythm on the varnished wood. "She's so bright. I can't go back to living within a shadowed world."

"You offered her choices," Fran said. "There was always the risk of that."

Penelo let the door fall closed again, careful to let it latch soundlessly. There was a strange ache in her chest, a hard knot of emotion in her throat. Her eyes stung with tears, and she blinked them back furiously, though the effort only amplified the burning. She wasn't generally given to such displays of sentimentality. She didn't know why her eavesdropping had provoked it now.

Except that Fran had been right, and she didn't know what she was meant to do about it, how to walk willingly down a road she had traveled once before and had ended in disaster. Fools repeated their mistakes; she didn't want to believe she was one of them.

Fear clutched her in an icy grip and she spread the blanket upon the bed and crawled beneath it, curling into a ball in an effort to warm herself. The blankets smelled like Balthier, like sun and heat, encasing her, enfolding her in an echo of his arms. It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

Her stomach clenched. Her breath shuddered out unsteadily.

Balthier had once said that she had been bruised but not broken, and he was right. Raen's defection had hurt her, battered her pride, pierced her heart.

Balthier's would ruin her. She wouldn't merely be broken, she would be shattered. Irreparably damaged. How could she open herself to that sort of risk, knowing that an unfavorable result would destroy her?

The door opened with the barest click to alert her to his presence. He thought she was asleep; the bed depressed as he climbed in, making every effort not to wake her. Gently he slid his arm beneath her neck, and the heat of his skin seared hers, chasing away the chill. She stretched out her legs, toasting her cold toes on his calves.

He gave a muffled chuckle and his lips bussed her temple. "I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered.

"It's okay," she said. "I just…got cold."

In response, he gathered her close, surrounding her with the heat of his body to ward off the cold. And she remained silent, tucking her head into the curve of his shoulder.

He had said she would take the color with her if she left.

He would take the warmth.