Penelo woke the following morning when the Strahl tilted to the left, rolling her across the bed to bump face-first against the wall. Annoyed and groggy, she held her aching head, trying to decide which hurt worse - the thwack against the wall, or the aftereffects of a bit too much brandy the night before. The ship righted; she rolled back towards the center of the bed. For just a moment, there was peace. She plunked a pillow over her head to block out the harsh daylight streaming through the window, hoping she might be able to go back to sleep for just a little while longer.
But then her mind finally registered the fact that the Strahl was, in fact, in flight, and then jumped on to the realization of exactly who was piloting her. The events of the previous evening came crashing back down upon her, and she didn't even try to muffle her groan. Her head still pounded, but now that she considered it, maybe she hadn't had quite enough brandy.
A soft knock at the door. Barely a second passed before the knob was tested, but she had had the foresight to lock it the night before. A heavy sigh from outside the door, followed by another, more determined knock.
She turned her back on the door with a flounce, even though her wordless irritation was lost to him through the sturdy wooden barrier.
"Penelo?"
She declined to dignify his inquiry with a response.
"Do you intend to sulk all day?"
Sulk! As if she were a petulant child! He had the unmitigated gall to chastise her? She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut - he was angling for a response, and she would not engage. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take several long, deep breaths. Distant. Calm. She needed to retreat to that cold, dark place she had inhabited for so long, where there was no feeling, just a blessed numbness.
"I thought you might like to hear about Fran."
Fran! She bolted upright, smacking her head on the shelf built into the headboard, and let loose a muffled string of curses. Fran...had they both made it out of the Bahamut? She had been so surprised by his miraculous survival, so angered by his careless defection, that she hadn't even thought to ask after Fran. That was unconscionable, considering it was Fran's former bedroom she was now occupying. She rubbed the wounded spot at the top of her head, ascertained that she hadn't broken the skin but would likely have quite the goose egg. Blast him. She would have to go out. He would hold hostage the information she wanted until she did.
"I'll be out shortly," she said finally, glaring at the door.
Outside the door, Balthier suppressed a snicker. He had heard both the telltale smack and the blistering string of curses that had followed it. Somehow he did not imagine she would appreciate the fact that he had found the vulgarities she had spouted more endearing than offensive.
He had not been particularly surprised to find that she was occupying Fran's bedroom rather than his, but he had been a touch...disappointed, he thought. It had been easier to put her from his mind when they were separated by miles, but not nearly so now that she was sleeping just across the hallway, separated from him only by a door. A locked door. Dear, sweet, innocent girl. She could not be so naive as to think anything as simple as a lock could keep him out, could she? Ahh, of course she could. She underestimated his determination, or her own inherent charms, or perhaps both. These things he could use to his advantage.
He retreated to the deck to wait for her, having found nothing edible in the kitchen with which to break his fast. No matter; they were underweigh and would soon be arriving at the Aerodrome in Balfonheim where they could acquire the necessary provisions.
She emerged a few minutes later and took a seat as far from him as she could, still clad only in his shirt, still barefoot, still decidedly rumpled-looking.
"Nothing to wear?" he inquired innocently.
She shifted uncomfortably, a delicate flush climbing into her cheeks. "I neglected to pack when I left Rabanastre, and Fran's clothing...well, she is a good deal taller than I, isn't she?"
True. But then, Fran's taste in clothing had always run a bit on the risque side (although still considered somewhat prudish by Viera standards), certainly moreso than Penelo's ever had. For a moment he imagined Penelo rifling through Fran's drawers, searching for something acceptable to wear, finding only garments that would be more suitable as lingerie than outerwear. How she must've fretted over that! Even his shirt would cover more than any of Fran's things.
"Hmm. Well, I suppose we shall have to find you some appropriate clothing in Balfonheim, then," he said. "Until then, you may, of course, have the loan of my shirt."
Pursed lips signified her disapproval at his presumption, but she ignored both his proclamation of their destination and his generous contribution to her sorely lacking wardrobe. She busied herself with rolling up the sleeves of the shirt, cuffing them at her wrists so the excess fabric would no longer display the regrettable tendency to slip down over her hands.
"You have news of Fran?" she asked; a polite inquiry, just the barest touch of interest in her tone. She was striving so hard not to let him hear the concern that he knew was there.
"Alive and well, I assure you." He had briefly considered making her work harder for the information she wanted, but had ultimately decided against it. She had enough cause to be furious with him already; he did not need to add anything further to his list of offenses.
"Strange, then, that she should not be traveling with you," she remarked.
In truth, Fran had not offered to come along on his journey to recover the Strahl. She had made several cryptic statements regarding the possibility of him acquiring more than he had bargained for, and not wishing to get in his way. He had not considered until now that perhaps Fran had somehow known that such proximity to Penelo would be more than he could resist.
"Not so very strange, in fact. She has been spending a great deal of time with her sisters in Eruyt Village of late. Mjrn has taken it into her head to become a sky pirate, and I suspect Fran will wish to travel with her for a time." He bestowed upon her his most charming smile, but she merely furrowed her brow in confusion, as though unsure what to make of his expression. How in hell was he to charm her from her snit if she could not be charmed?
An alarm from the navigation console chimed, signalling their descent into Balfonheim port, and he rose to his feet.
"I suppose I had best find you something more to wear into the city, at least until we can find you some more suitable clothing." He gestured to indicate her bare legs.
Her chin rose a notch. "I can't say that I recall agreeing to accompany you," she said.
He sighed. She was bound and determined to make this as difficult as possible, but he supposed she was due a bit of retribution. Still, she was hardly giving him an opportunity to restore himself to her good graces.
"There is a festival in Balfonheim today," he said. "I had thought perhaps you might like to attend."
She tilted her head to the side, her mussed hair sliding over her shoulder. "And the catch?"
"My accompaniment, of course."
"No, thank you." She stood, turned to leave. He stayed her with a hand on her arm.
"You require clothing, and the provisions aboard the Strahl are in need of replenishing. It is necessary to go into town today for these things," he said.
"By all means, go without me."
He ground his teeth together. "If I could be assured that you would remain here until I returned, I would do so. But somehow, I don't imagine that will happen short of locking you in your room and disabling the Strahl, which I would rather not do."
She gasped, affronted. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Of course I would," he snapped. "But I would rather have the pleasure of your company. So which is it to be?"
For a moment she looked as though she would relish taking a swing at him. She settled for jerking her arm from his grasp and glaring mutinously up at him. "Fine. We'll go into the city."
"I thought you might come around." He strode off down the hall and returned a moment later with a pair of plain linen pants and a belt. "These ought to do, at least until we find you an outfitter. Though a bath might be in order beforehand."
She took the proffered garments with a saccharine smile. "I liked you better when you were dead," she said with poisonous sweetness. Then she turned abruptly on her heel, stalking down the hall to the bathroom, where she slammed the door behind her.
She had, of course, rejected his every attempt at conversation since they had left the Strahl, and had not so much as glanced in his direction. Still, her fit of pique brought a charming flush of color to her cheeks, which, coupled with her hair which was drying to wispy blond tendrils about her face and the clothing that was several sizes too big for her, served only to make her look...adorable. Like a child playing dress-up. He did not expect that she would appreciate the comparison, so he wisely kept his opinion to himself.
The festival had drawn hordes of people to the coastal city, rendering the already crowded streets nigh impassable. He would not have put it past her to attempt to slip away from him amidst the thickening crowds, so instead he directed her down a side street with a hand on her elbow. They passed a few storefronts before coming upon a seamstress' shop, and he held the door open for her to enter.
The proprietress, a heavy-set middle-aged woman, clucked her tongue disapprovingly at Penelo in her ill-fitting men's clothing.
"My, my. No need to ask what's brought you in," she said. "I can see you'll need a bit of everything." She retrieved a length of measuring tape from a pouch at her waist and wrapped it around Penelo's midsection. "My dear, you could do with a little fattening up. Here, I've just the thing."
She bustled out of the room and returned a few moments later carrying a plate of pastries and a mug of cider. She directed Penelo to a chair and set the food on a low table before it.
"I've a few ready-made things that I should be able to alter to your size fairly quickly, so you just sit there and eat, and I'll bring them out." And she was off again, searching through the back of the shop.
Balthier dropped into a chair across from Penelo, snatching up a pastry for himself before she could protest. "She's right, you know. You could use a little fattening up."
"I fail to see how stealing my breakfast will achieve that end," she sniffed disdainfully.
"Have a heart, darling girl; it's well after noon and I've yet to eat. And shopping for clothing is so dreadfully boring."
A long-suffering sigh through gritted teeth. "I know."
He lifted a brow. "I was of the impression that women enjoyed it immensely."
"I've never cared for it. It's all being poked with pins and then being told to stand still and having people come at you with measuring tapes and stuffing you into all manners of uncomfortable clothing." She shuddered, wearing a look of extreme distaste. Then she came to the unpleasant realization that she had been chatting with him rather than ignoring him. Her expression shuttered and she averted her gaze, instead focusing her attention on her breakfast.
Balthier smothered a triumphant smirk. For a moment at least, she had forgotten her anger. If only he could engage her interest, keep her talking, perhaps she would see her way past her present irritation, perhaps that icy exterior would thaw once again into the vibrant warmth he had always associated with her.
The proprietress returned, arms laden with surfeit of garments which she began hanging on a rack for their perusal. Penelo managed a weak smile, daunted by the overabundance of clothing displayed before her.
"Hmm, not the green, I'd think," the proprietress said thoughtfully, studying Penelo. "Too dark for your complexion, dear." She removed a few garments from the rack, laying them aside. "Nor the purple, neither, I should say."
Balthier rose to his feet and began to comb through the remaining choices. "This one," he said finally, withdrawing a hanger from the rack. "She looks lovely in pink."
"Ahhh." The woman accepted the hanger from Balthier and brought it to Penelo to test the dusty rose color of the fabric against her skin. "Wonderful, just the thing. Your gentleman has excellent taste, dear. It goes so well with your fair hair."
Penelo took the hanger as the woman ushered her towards a changing room. "But he's not my -"
"I think a few others as well," Balthier interrupted. "We'll discuss it while she changes."
By the time Penelo emerged from the changing room, Balthier and the proprietress had settled on four additional outfits that could be altered easily enough. All they had needed was a bit of hemming at the cuffs of the legs, which the proprietress completed in just a few minutes with the rose-colored pants and assured them that the rest of the garments would be delivered to them at the Aerodrome later in the day.
Though Penelo could not like Balthier's presumption in choosing her garments, she reluctantly admitted to herself that it would have been a much more arduous process without him. She had never had the patience for selecting such things herself, and she did rather like the loose-fitting pants and watered silk corset top he had chosen. The color gave her skin a warm golden glow, and she was glad to have the freedom of motion only pants could provide once again, since her wardrobe at the palace in Rabanastre had been limited to gowns and skirts. Ashe had said they were elegant and had insisted that there was no longer any need for serviceable garments when she could have luxurious ones instead. Penelo had never felt less elegant in her life than she did in the diaphanous gowns Ashe had ordered for her; she had developed the habit of hiking up her skirts in a manner Ashe had sniffed was 'unseemly' to avoid constantly tripping over the hems.
Balthier cleared his throat behind her. "For your hair," he said, handing over a length of ribbon.
Penelo accepted the offering, turning to the mirror to comb her fingers through her hair and bind it up away from her face. He lingered behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, and his eyes slid over her like a hand. His gaze caught hers in the mirror and he smiled, a hungry-wolf sort of smile that made her shiver with its intensity.
"You do look lovely," he said, easing closer. Too close for comfort; she sidled away but could only move so far, trapped as she was in the small room, bordered by the wall, the mirror, and him. That knowing grin widened; blast him, he knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making her!
In her nervousness, she fumbled with the ribbon, and he stepped in. "Please, allow me," he said, tugging the ribbon from her trembling fingers. She closed her eyes so she would not have to see him, but she felt him instead, his gentle fingers smoothing her hair back, making short work of the task. His fingertips grazed the back of her neck; she felt the brief contact like a brand upon her skin.
"Hmm." His voice was a warm purr at her ear. "I suppose we shall have to purchase some toiletries as well. I can't say my soap suits you. Perhaps...lavender?"
The subtle insinuation in his voice made her eyes snap open, then narrow with ill humor. His hands curved over her shoulders, a sly smile curved his lips.
She stomped on his foot.
He released her with a muffled curse, bending to rub his injured toes. His annoyed glare promised retribution, but she merely stuck her nose in the air and folded her arms over her chest.
"Really, Balthier," she huffed. "You're lucky I'm not carrying a weapon. I've done far worse, and for lesser offenses."
And she pushed past him, leaving him to hobble along in her wake as they left the shop.
He had to hand it to the cheeky little brat; her unexpected attack had forced him to cede the first round to her. Sadly, while his tooled leather boots were soft and comfortable, they provided little protection against willful females, and he knew he would feel the ache of his miscalculation for some time thereafter.
Still, she hadn't managed to get far ahead of him at least, and her fair hair and rose-colored clothing made her easy to spot in a crowd. She had stopped briefly to watch a small cluster of children engaged in a festival game of sorts; they were crowded around a brazier, plucking slowly-roasting dates from a steaming bowl. He recalled the game from his youth in Archadia - one had to move quickly to grab up a date, or risk singeing one's hands on the hot metal bowl.
The older children were old professionals at it, taller and swifter than the younger ones. They snatched up their dates with ease, popping the sugary fruit into their mouths with delight. The younger children, who were too small to see over the edge of the bowl to the fruit it held, were forced to rely upon the kindness of the older children, none of whom seemed overly inclined to share their bounty.
A young girl who held a moogle stuffed animal tucked beneath her arm pulled at the fabric of Penelo's pants to catch her attention, the thumb of her free hand stuck in her mouth. He watched as Penelo dropped to her knees and bent her head closer to the girl, who whispered something in Penelo's ear. At once, Penelo rose to her feet, patting the child on the head affectionately, and approached the brazier, squeezing past the group of older children circling the brazier.
He tensed; surely she wasn't going to...?
But she had already reached in, plucked out a small handful of dates, and was receiving her accolades from the older children for having managed to snag so many. She tossed the little handful of fruit in the air to cool it, laughing as the older children hustled to outdo her record catch.
She returned to her spot by the small girl, holding out her hands in offer. They shared the sticky fruit together; the little girl and her chosen champion. Finally the fruit was gone, and the little girl disappeared into the crowd happy, having gotten her bit of the spoils. Penelo's fond smile died when she caught sight of Balthier, who was aware that he looked less than pleased at her actions.
"You could have been hurt," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous. It's a game; I've played it hundreds of times. I'm fast; I can grab the dates without burning myself."
"You ought to have let someone else do it." He knew he was being unreasonable; she'd never been in any real danger. But still his heart had raced, sure that she would be injured, sure that he could do nothing to stop it in time.
"Oh, really?" She was absently licking the caramelized sugar from her fingers; he was momentarily transfixed. "Who would you recommend to do it, then?"
"Her parents. One of the other children. Anyone else." He heard his voice go hoarse; her pink tongue had made a swift swipe across her thumb and his blood had run hot.
She fixed him with a pointed look. "She's an orphan. They're all orphans." Her stern expression faded, melting into a look of heart-rending sorrow, born of her own past as a street urchin, alone and bereft of family. "There are so many orphans, Balthier," she murmured.
"I don't want you taking such a risk again, regardless of the cause." Dear gods, why in hell did it matter so much to him whether or not she indulged in such games? Why did the thought of her in pain make his stomach clench with fear?
Her mouth flattened into a thin line. "I don't believe I asked for your permission." That crisp, ladylike tone was back in her voice, her spine ramrod straight. Her still-sticky fingers had clenched into fists. Then, as if struck by divine inspiration, her indignant expression faded to a smirk so self-satisfied that he could not even begin to guess at her intent.
"Oh, dear," she said. "Dates are so very messy, you know. And I haven't got a napkin, so I suppose I'll just have to make do with..." She reached out and wiped one hand down the front of his shirt, leaving a trail of the sticky date-residue on the clean, white fabric, and laughed with pure delight at his consternation, her head tilted back, glorying in her own vindictiveness.
But she was too distracted in her exultation to be paying much attention to him, and he snatched up her free hand, pulling her towards him. And her laughter faded to wary silence as he lifted her hand to his mouth. She tried to pull away, but he had a firm grasp on her wrist.
"What are you doing?" she asked, but her voice was just a whisper, a breathless sound of anticipation.
"As you did not see fit to share your spoils with me, I will simply have to take what I can find." And he closed his mouth around her forefinger, his tongue caressing away the lingering traces of sugar. He expected a fight, but she merely stared, shocked, as he licked the sugar from her fingers.
Round two, Balthier. Ahh, he did so very much enjoy that stunned expression of wonderment. The wide, unfocused eyes, the sudden indrawn breath that shuddered out on a feathery sigh, the minute curling of her fingers around his. She was nowhere near as immune to him as she would like him to believe. Now he had only to make her come to accept it.
"As satisfying as that was," he said. "I believe we could do with something a bit more substantial, hmm?"
His voice broke the sensual spell he had woven around her; she blinked in horrified amazement and jerked her hand from his grasp, staring down at her fingers as if she'd never seen them before. Then her gaze drifted up to his face, and he gifted her with a wicked smile which only grew as hot color flooded her face.
For a moment he thought she might turn and run like a frightened rabbit, for surely he had shocked her with his shameless advances. And indeed, she took a step away from him as if she thought he might fall upon her like a ravenous wolf. But the streets were crowded; she backed right into someone, muttered a hasty apology. No escape, poor girl. He could almost pity her.
He seized the advantage, caught her by the shoulder, propelling her towards him, grabbing up her hand in his. "Let's go, then, shall we?"
She stumbled along after him, shackled by his firm grip and her own bewilderment. "Why...why did you do that?"
"Why not?" A careless shrug.
"That's hardly a proper answer." There was a quivering note of something in her voice that he could not quite identify; he thought perhaps confusion, but that seemed too tame. She sounded as if he had knocked her world off its axis and she was struggling to right herself.
"It was hardly a proper question." She had to know why he'd done it...didn't she? She had been shying away from him, shoving him away whenever he got too close. And he wondered if perhaps she underestimated her own appeal; if she was more afraid of her own weakness than of him. If she was less angry with him than she was frightened of what he could make her feel. Ahh, a theory to be tested. He needed only to overwhelm her, surprise her, wrest her careful control away, and her true reactions would surface to be read. An intriguing idea.
In the commerce district at the edge of town, restaurants had expanded their reaches into the plaza, creating a terrace clustered with tables. Thirty feet away or so, where the cobblestone street faded into the grassy outskirts of the city, a large group of people danced around a blazing bonfire. Balthier escorted Penelo to an unoccupied table, and a server promptly appeared tableside to drop off a round of drinks and take their order.
"Summer festival specialty," he said, sliding two cups onto the table before them. "On the house."
Balthier took a drink and understood immediately - of course, inebriated patrons would be more easily induced to part with their gil, and a rum punch on the house might help them on their way to that happy state. But Penelo was blithely sipping at hers, and he wondered if she was even aware that there was anything but fruit juice in it. He decided against warning her of it as she did not seem particularly inclined to make conversation; let her deal with the consequences.
Penelo seemed entranced by the dancing, had hardly glanced in his direction during their supper in favor of studying the intricate, whirling steps the dancers made as they circled the bonfire. He had been of a mind to ask her if she might like to join them when a voluptuous little serving maid dropped herself into his lap and twined her arms around his neck.
Of course, that would catch her attention, no matter that he had been just as surprised as she.
Penelo shot to her feet. "I'm going to dance," she said shortly, and made her escape before he could protest. So instead he watched her wind her way through the tables toward the bonfire, observing on the edge for a moment before another dancer grabbed her hand, pulling her into the steps.
"Now, now," the woman on his lap patted his cheek to regain his attention. "No use hankering after that one, she don't want you." She batted large brown eyes up at him, pressed herself against his chest, her ample cleavage threatening to spill from her bodice. "I'll take you on, though, if you're of a mind."
He sighed, gently prying her clutching fingers from his shirt. "Sweet of you to offer, pet, but I'm afraid I must decline."
She made a little moue of disappointment as he lifted her off his lap, but accepted his refusal with good grace after he tucked a couple of gil into her hand, and finally she traipsed off to find another patron.
For a few minutes he watched the dancers, every now and then catching a glimpse of Penelo as she spun through the steps, her fair hair shining like a beacon in the firelight. She looked alive at last, her mouth curved in an enchanting smile, laughing as she stumbled through some of the paces she had not yet mastered. But she was focused on learning the steps, and she did not look back at him, had not seen him dismiss the wench.
She was thoroughly engrossed in dancing; he would not be missed if he slipped away for a bit to gather the rest of their provisions. She would not even realize he had gone, not when she was so enjoying herself. And somehow, it stung - that she truly would not even miss him.
When he finally returned, having made arrangements to have his purchases sent up to the Strahl at the Aerodrome, Penelo was still enmeshed in the throng of dancers. Her hair had come loose, shining wheat-colored waves flying after her through the sinuous motions of the dance. She was an excellent dancer, he thought - she had so quickly learned the steps, moved in perfect tandem with the pounding beat of the drums, all lithe grace and surefooted elegance.
Until she stumbled, missed a step, and he noticed finally the cup held in her hand, which she then tipped to her mouth in a long swallow. She recovered herself, and a helpful young man snatched the empty cup from her hand, replacing it with a full one.
At once, he wended his way through the crowd towards the bonfire, catching her on the next pass, pulling her none too gently from the circle of dancers. He pried the cup from her hands, took a drink - rum punch, of course.
"How many of these have you had?" He tightened his grip on her wrist when she would have pulled away.
"Two. No, three. Four?" She shrugged. "I don't remember." But she was swaying on her feet, and not to the music.
"It's time to go."
"No!" She tried ineffectually to pry his hand loose from her wrist. "I was having fun!"
"Darling girl, you're sotted."
"It was just punch!"
"It was rum punch, and rather heavy on the liquor at that." He set the cup down on a nearby table, bent at the knees, and slung her over his shoulder, having determined that she was in no mood to come along quietly.
"You...you...arrogant ass!" She beat her fists against his back, kicked her legs, which accomplish precisely nothing. "Put me down!"
But he was already striding away, and no one seemed particularly inclined to come to her rescue. He ignored her infuriated stream of invectives, more concerned with getting her back to the safety of the Strahl than with being the focus of her ire.
But she tired quickly, and the way her head swam made her suspect that Balthier probably had a point. Dizziness assailed her.
"I think I'm going to throw up," she murmured. And immediately he set her on her feet, steadying her. Her stomach ceased its worrying upheaval, settling down to a manageable discomfort.
"All right, then?" His voice was rough, but concerned.
She nodded. "Don't pick me up again."
"Be good, then, and come along." He snatched up her hand and dragged her along behind him. "I would have thought by now you'd have learned your limit."
"I've never had rum punch before. Ashe never lets me have more than a glass of champagne," she murmured inanely. "I suppose it's easier to drink too much when it doesn't taste like liquor."
He was muttering under his breath; she couldn't catch more than snatches of it, but she'd managed to understand obnoxious chit and going to be the death of me, and she drew in a furious breath.
"You decided you were going to accompany me, so don't you dare blame me for it! I never expected to see you again! I would never have expected to see you again even if I had known you were alive!"
He stopped abruptly, rounded on her. "What in the world is that supposed to mean?"
She had clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head. "Nothing," she said finally. "Nothing at all." But that icy crispness had inserted itself back into her voice, a tell, he was quickly learning, that she had become uncomfortable, wished to shut down that avenue of questioning.
And this time, he could not allow her to do so. "Darling girl," he said. "I think it is high time we talked."