A knock at the door pierced through the heavy veil of sleep, and Balthier struggled towards consciousness. He'd slept harder, deeper than he could ever remember, and was less than pleased at the theft of what was - for the first time in recent memory - a restful night of dreamless, uninterrupted sleep, unplagued by nightmares.
There was a pleasant weight on his chest beneath the covers; he tried for a stretch, but a sound of annoyance, muffled by the heavy coverlet, issued forth. He peeled back the blankets, revealing Penelo's mussed blond hair, sleep-flushed face. She was cocooned against him, draped half over him. Her head was pillowed on his chest, and she turned her face away in protest of the sudden intrusion of daylight, snuggling deeper into the covers. Her leg slid along his, and he suppressed a groan. But she merely sighed, settling back into sleep.
Another sharp knock. "Balthier? Are you awake? It's almost time to go." Vaan's voice. Then, a hesitant, thoughtful, "And we can't find Penelo."
This had gone all wrong. He had never passed the entire night with a woman. He had always left well before morning. For once he was entirely at a loss, not at all certain how he was to handle this new situation. Just as he was wondering whether or not he had remembered to engage the lock the night before, the doorknob twisted, the door pushed open an inch.
"Open that door and you're a dead man," Balthier snarled immediately, drawing the covers over Penelo's head once more, protectively. At the sharp bite of his voice, he felt the length of Penelo's body go rigid against him.
At once the door snapped shut again. "Just wanted to make sure you were awake," Vaan said through the door. "But get a move on, okay?"
Penelo pushed away from him, clutching the blankets around her as she sat up. One bare leg was revealed; she looked so delightfully rumpled and disheveled that he wanted to tunnel his hands in her hair, bring her mouth to his, and damn the consequences. But she was rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her expression fading from one of sleepy, unconscious sensuality to dawning horror.
"Vaan? Was that Vaan?" she whispered.
"Afraid so. You've been discovered missing."
"No. Oh, no." She scrambled off the bed, collecting her scattered clothing. "I've got to get dressed. I've got to get out of here."
She threw off the blanket, and in her haste to quit the room, she was wonderfully naked for a few glorious moments as she stumbled into her clothing. She was in such a hurry that each article of clothing seemed to go on as if by accident; she tripped into her boots, fumbled with the laces of her top. Raked her fingers through her disordered hair to work out the tangles, managed to pull it up and bind it with the ribbon he'd carelessly discarded last night.
"I'm going out the window," she said.
"Don't be daft," he said. "It's the third floor -"
She held out a hand to stop him. "I'm not going out the door. I don't want to be caught here any more than you want me to be caught here," she said, keeping her voice low in case anyone was lurking in the hallway outside. "Besides, there's a drainpipe. I can just climb down and come in the front and say I've been out."
"You don't want to be caught here? What the hell do you mean by that?" His rising indignation caught him off guard. But he did the leaving; he was not left. It simply was not done. Or at least, it hadn't ever been done before.
She fixed him with a vaguely patronizing look. "I mean that I don't want to have anyone else sticking their noses in my business. And besides, Vaan would take a swing at you in some misguided attempt to defend my honor or something." A heavy sigh. "I don't want to cause a scene."
She didn't want to cause a scene. She wanted to keep this a secret. He supposed he ought to be grateful; she was logical and unemotional about it. Instead he was irritated with her for thinking they'd done something she ought to be ashamed of. He didn't particularly relish being her dirty little secret.
He found himself wishing that she could have been like the others that had come before her, simpering, pleading, crying prettily in an attempt to hold his attention. If she had, he could have respected her less, admired her less. He would know how to manage her, how to disengage. But she was determined to buck convention, throwing his own lines at him. I don't want to cause a scene. How was he supposed to claim control over this situation if she treated it like it didn't exist?He scrubbed his face with his hands, utterly baffled.
And she was throwing open the window, sticking her head outside. She thrust her leg out, straddling the sill as she grabbed for the drainpipe. She looked back to him. "Well...it's been fun."
And she slipped out, disappearing from view. He pressed his fingers to his temples, his head ached trying to unravel the knots of confusion she'd twisted him into. Fun? It had been fun? Bloody hell. What had just happened?
Balthier had missed the Strahl. Missed her sleek lines, her elegance, her easy maneuvering, her speed. The cool leather wrapping her yoke warmed to his fingers, he relished the purr of her engines, the steady vibration, the way the pilot's seat molded to him, embracing him. She had been his home for the past six years, he had learned every part of her, and he alone had mastered the piloting of her. The scrapped prototype and the scrapped son - they had been made for each other.
The presence of his other companions had somewhat diminished his joy at being reunited with her - he had experienced a measure of prickly irritation, the vessel that was effectively his inner sanctum overrun, invaded by this ragtag band he currently had the misfortune to call compatriots. Only Fran's presence did not grate on his nerves, she having been his partner and companion these last six years, traveling with him. And perhaps she had sensed his rising agitation with the cluster of people crowding his deck, for she instructed them that they should go and make themselves comfortable elsewhere while she and Balthier set their course.
The cause for Balthier's pique dispersed, and he been able to relax more comfortably back in the seat, stretching his long legs. Fran slid into the chair beside him, bringing up the navigation panel.
"The Feywood reveals the path to Giruvegan," she said. "It is told of in an ancient song of my people, but the city has long since gone the way of myths and legends. The way is obscurred by the roiling mists, and not even Viera legends stretch back far enough to guess at what the city will hold for us."
"Retribution, if we are lucky," Balthier said darkly.
Fran fell silent for a few moments, plugging coordinates into the navigation system, working silently to chart a course into the Feywood. The ship lifted lightly off the ground, Balthier's deft handling guiding her up into the bright cornflower blue sky without so much as a stutter.
"You would do well to take caution with Penelo," Fran said abruptly. At the soft rebuke, Balthier's brows jerked skyward, surprise etched upon his face. He had never known Fran to pry into his private life; at least she never had before. It was to be a day of firsts, apparently. She studied him dispassionately, then explained her comment. "She said she had been out this morning, but...the smell of you lingered on her. I do not believe anyone else suspects; she guarded her thoughts and her words well." The words held a measure of respect for Penelo's apparent discretion.
Balthier schooled his features into an expression of indifference; he did not bother to deny the unspoken charge Fran had laid upon him, because it would be an insult to Fran to pretend she had been mistaken. "You needn't fear on that account," he said. "The woman has not been born from whom I could not walk away."
The wry twist of her lips did not escape him. "From this one, I think you had better run."
Night had fallen, and Penelo prowled the darkened, empty corridor aimlessly. She had been unable to sleep through Vaan's customary, constant snoring. When they had camped in the wilderness, the sound had been muffled by the nighttime noises of the wild, weakened by the wide, open spaces that snatched it away into the darkness. Now, trapped as they were in a tiny room, the sound reverberated off the walls, coalescing into a maddening roar of constant, vibrating noise. She had twitched, thrashed, covered her ears with her hands, prodded Vaan in the back with her foot, and eventually given up altogether, grabbing up a blanket and quitting the room.
Finally she decided to return to the deck, just to be free of the steady rumble of sound that followed her down the corridor. At least the deck contained a number of seats upholstered with leather that had been worn to butter-softness. It might not hold quite the appeal of a bed, but then there were precious few of those to go around; the Strahl was not a passenger ship, after all.
The deck lighting was dim, but the glow of the console provided some measure of visibility - enough for her to see Balthier, stretched out in indolent repose, his feet slung over the flat top of the console, his arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. She paused in the doorway, uncertain. She should leave while she could, and simply do her best not to strangle Vaan in his sleep.
Before she could turn to leave, Balthier lifted a hand, beckoning her inside the room.
"Unable to sleep?" he inquired.
She shuffled forward sulkily; having somehow attracted his notice, she could hardly leave without looking like the worst sort of coward. How had he even known? He hadn't even opened his eyes. She dropped into the chair beside him, sprawling out gracelessly, hooking her knees over the arm - the closest she could come to actually reclining.
"Vaan was snoring," she said petulantly, her voice slightly muffled by the blanket she had tangled around herself. "It was either leave the room or smother him."
He snickered. "Well, then, by all means, make yourself comfortable."
She shifted in the seat. "I thought you'd be asleep by now. Doesn't the Strahl have autopilot?"
"She's flying under it now. I merely desired a bit of peace and quiet in which to enjoy her again. It has been somewhat less than peaceful today, what with four additional passengers."
A chance to make her escape. "I'll go," she said at once, "I don't want to bother you."
But he stayed her with a hand on the top of her head, stroking her soft hair.
"You're no bother," he said, somewhat startled to discover it was the truth. He was no less at peace with her here than he had been without her. Her presence merely made him...content. She lent a warmth to the room. Like a roaring fire on a cold, wintery night, it was as if he could toast his fingers in the glow of her.
She subsided into the protective shield of the blanket without further protest. She didn't appear to be exactly comfortable, but then the deck seats had hardly been designed to be slept in. Her eyes closed, sooty lashes fanning her cheeks.
He didn't want her to fall asleep yet, to deprive him of her company. "Tell me something about yourself," he said.
Her eyes opened again, eyebrows winging up in surprise, suspicion. "Why?"
Because he wanted to listen to the soft, sweet sound of her voice. Because he wanted to learn her, to understand her. He shrugged. "Curiosity. Something to pass the time."
She sat silent, thinking. Finally she returned with, "When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer."
He could well imagine that; her a dancer, with her lithe, graceful body. "Not anymore?"
She shook her head, sighing. "Too much time spent in one place. I don't want to live like that anymore." She turned her head, gazing out the window at the black sky bursting with glinting stars. "How could I go back, after this?"
Her reverant voice, the aching longing that filled it, struck a chord in him. He knew exactly how she felt, for he had felt it, too. He found himself reaching out to touch her bright hair, withdrew his hand just in time as she turned to him.
"Your turn," she said.
"My turn?"
"I told you something about me," she said. "Now it's your turn." She wiggled a little in her seat; he noticed her bare feet poking out from beneath the blanket. Of course she wouldn't sleep in shoes...but with her bare feet visible, and the rest of her body concealed by the blanket, he was helpless not to imagine her naked beneath it. As she had been this morning. So deliciously warm and sleepy, the blanket parting in places to reveal hints of smooth, fair skin. He shifted uncomfortably, aware of her eyes on him.
"When I was a child, I wanted to be an astronomer," he admitted.
"Not a pirate?" Her interest piqued, she eased forward.
"No. I more or less just fell into pirating when I left Archadia, took to it rather well, all things considered. But I had no taste for it as a child. I was...rather straight-laced. An avid follower of the rules. Boring." A placid little automaton made in his father's image. "Stealing the Strahl was really the first foot I had ever set out of line. But I'd had so many years of proper behavior to make up for, so I simply kept it up for a time. And after that...well, I had developed a reputation that required maintaining."
She tried to imagine what Balthier would have been like then; the child he had described was so incongruous to the man he'd become. She could not quite picture him without that mischievous streak of wickedness. She would have liked to imagine that even as a child, he would have had a touch of the pirate in him. But she recalled the harsh words his father had flung at him in Archades, the scorn he'd shown his son.
"Your father...it must have hurt you, what he said to you in Archades."
He shrugged. "He approves of no vices excepting his own, and I ceased seeking his approval long ago," he said easily. "I have long since rid myself of any lingering filial piety I might once have had."
"He was so...cold." Her voice was low, a reflective murmur. "I don't understand that kind of parent. How could he speak to you like that? How could he treat his own child that way? After all the terrible things he's done, how could he presume to judge you?"
"He was never particularly demonstrative," Balthier said. "I learned the only way to please him was to conform to his every expectation. It was a doomed venture from the start." He sighed, said in a contemplative tone, "Despite what he thinks of me, I'd far rather be a pirate than a monster of his variety. Better a bounty on my head than innocent blood on my hands."
She curled her body into the seat, snuggling into the blankets. Her arms she folded over the arm of the chair and then rested her head upon them. Her eyes closed, and she yawned. "I think it must've taken a lot of courage to do what you did," she murmured drowsily. "Maybe you don't always - or even usually - stay within the law, but at least you stand by your convictions and do what you think is right. I sort of...admire that about you."
Balthier felt a curious little flutter in his chest, did his best not to gawk at her. She admired him? Women fawned over him, flattered him, flirted with him. They did not admire him. How did she constantly manage to disarm him, to flout his expectations of her? He liked to think that he knew how women behaved, but she broke the mold of her gender. And he realized - he liked that, too, that she was unpredictable. She was never boring. She made him furious, she frustrated him, vexed him endlessly. But she also made him laugh, made him forget his tainted past. Made him want to draw her into his arms, hold her against him, protect her from all that might seek to do her harm.
She made him want to keep her. A troubling thought, that.
She could not be comfortable, wedged into the chair as she was. He thought of the previous night, how late it had been before he had let her rest, how she had been splayed across the bed in a boneless heap, panting with exertion even as she slid immediately into a deep, exhausted slumber. How they had been roused by Vaan early this morning, after a scant few hours of rest.
"You need to sleep," he said.
Her lips pursed in annoyance. "I'm trying."
"In a bed, Penelo."
"They're all taken," she said petulantly.
"Not all of them. There is one left. Mine."
She released a throaty trill of laughter as if he'd made a grand joke.
"I assure you my offer was sincere." He leaned forward, unable to keep the devilish smirk off of his face. "I happen to know first hand that you've had precious little sleep. And why."
That scarlet flush that he liked so very much spread across her cheeks, and she squirmed, clearly flustered.
"You ought to feel honored, really," he continued. "You'd be the first, other than myself, to set foot there. But as we are such intimate friends, now, I suppose you should have the honor."
"You're just trying to embarrass me," she muttered, exasperated.
"Suit yourself. You're welcome to stay here, of course. We can...talk." He purred the word, and her stomach did a flip. He was toying with her, like a cat with a mouse caught under its paw. She didn't know how to play these sorts of games, had no interest in them. Had she been naive to think that nothing would come of the night before, that they would fall easily into their former roles, and never speak of it again?
"Talk about what?" she whispered with a sense of impending doom, unable to stop it, unable to do more than watch it happen.
He leaned back in the chair, the lazy, self-satisfied pose almost offensive in its apparent nonchalance.
"Do you know how I knew you were here when you came onto the deck?" he asked.
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
"I could smell you. Lavender. It's maddening, really. I shall never smell it again without thinking of you." His voice had dropped an octave, rumbling in his chest. "It shall always remind me of your hair in my hands, your lips on mine, your -"
"All right! I'll take your bed!" She sprang from the chair, resisting the urge to pat her cool hands on her burning cheeks, keenly aware that the rest of their party slept close by.
The blanket had dropped when she had bolted out of her seat, and his face was level with her bare stomach, his gaze affixed to the dip of her navel, remembering the feel of her hips cupped in his hands, the sweet sounds she had made as he had explored that enchanting spot with his tongue.
He slowly rose from his own chair, and she followed him down the narrow corridor until he stopped before the last door on the left, inserted a key into the lock, and pushed the door open. He stepped back, motioned for her to enter.
She went inside hesitantly, feeling vaguely out of place in this room with such masculine furnishings. It was more spartan than she had expected, housing sturdy furniture with strong lines made of dark mahogany wood, done up entirely in varying shades of unrelieved brown, with nary a frill or bit of lace on the bedclothes to soften it. It was just as tidy as she had anticipated, as fastidious as he was.
She turned to face him; he lingered just inside the room, leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his chest. "Well...good night," she murmured.
He straightened, turned, closed the door, engaged the lock. Turned back to face her with that knowing smirk. Her pulse lept; the impulse rose to back away from him like a frightened rabbit. A coward's reaction; she shoved it away, grappled desperately for words.
"I thought...you were giving me your bed for the night..." Gods, was that tremulous squeak really her voice?
"Did I say that?" A patently false innocent tone; he studied his fingernails casually. "You must have misunderstood."
Irritation flared, hot and immediate. "You let me misunderstand."
"Darling girl, I'm hardly a mind reader. How was I to know what you were thinking?" His hands were on the clasps of his vest. He shucked it off, hung it over a bed post, moved on to the buttons of his shirt. "I merely offered you a comfortable bed for the night. I assure you, I don't snore."
She knew that already, of course. "What, exactly, are you playing at here?"
He removed the shirt, folding it neatly and placing it atop the dresser. "So suspicious," he mocked gently. He moved toward her, but she held her ground, challenging him. His hands cupped her stiff shoulders, drew her close. His lips bussed the top of her head. Her little fists were clenched at her sides, her pursed lips lending her piquant face a fractious expression.
"Balthier."
A long-suffering sigh. "As it happens, I truly intended only to sleep. It is my fault, after all, that you have had so little. And if you did not blush so charmingly, perhaps I would not feel the urge to tease you so." He stepped away, padding around the bed to the far side. "Be about it, then, we know not what waits for us in Giruvegan; best to be well-rested for what lies ahead."
She hesitated; he was gratified that he had unbalanced her just as she had unbalanced him. Like for like; that was good.
"Just sleep?"
A cavalier, indulgent look. "Dear girl, if I thought you were in any condition, you would already have been well and thoroughly seduced. I am not unfamiliar with the workings of a woman's body, and I was, perhaps, a bit overzealous in my attentions last evening. For now, you are safe from any amorous intent."
She was going to die of embarrassment. She was going to simply slip straight through the floor and die of it. But instead of teasing her further, he merely flicked off the light and climbed under the covers. She heard the cool rustle of the bedclothes and stood silently by the side of the bed, torn. Stay or go? He had manipulated her into his room, but he was not forcing her to stay. She could leave if she wished, and he could not stop her, but...did she truly want to? In the darkness that enshrouded the room, she could not see him, but rather sense him, waiting, anticipating her answer. What manner of man invited a girl to share his bed to sleep?
Balthier bided his time; waiting for Penelo to come to a decision, which she seemed in no hurry to do. For his part, he was interested in testing a theory - Penelo had banished the nightmares last night. He wanted to know if she would do it again, if her very presence would put an end to the sleeplessness that had so plagued him these past years. And perhaps a small part of him - a very small part - enjoyed the thought of her in his bed, under his sheets, upon his pillow. He wondered if perhaps in the morning his pillows would still carry the scent of her hair.
At length, he grew tired of waiting.
She did not start or jerk away when his hand closed upon her wrist, gently pulling her down to sit on the bed. She did not protest when his long, elegant fingers pulled the ribbon from her hair, untied the laces of her top, eased her out of her pants, drew the covers over her, settled her against his chest, absently stroked her hair. The blankets were cool over her; his chest was warm beneath her cheek. She sighed. Closed her eyes. Slept.