InsaneJournal

"Her Own," FFXII, Vossler/Ashe
Title: Her Own
Author: Laylah
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vossler/Ashe
Rating: G
Recipient: lassarina
Wordcount: 400 -- a little something to tide you over, until your real gift arrives ♥
Summary: He reaches out, as though he would touch her, and stops himself in time. Three months ago he would not have reached out at all.


Her Own

"Let me see your hands," Vossler says.

Ashe pulls away, holds them behind her back -- would press them together, save that they burn, tender and raw from practice with a sword she can still scarcely bear the weight of. "I'm fine," she says. They can ill afford to spare the last of their potions on something so petty, and he worries enough about her already. The lines that crease his brow were not there even six months ago, when they first fled to the desert, and she mislikes the heaviness of his tread in recent days.

He reaches out, as though he would touch her, and stops himself in time. Three months ago he would not have reached out at all. "There is no shame in a soldier's blisters," he says, "only in refusing to care for them."

His tone is sharp enough that Ashe flinches, her cheeks flushing hot. "I do not mean --"

"Forgive me," Vossler says. "It is a speech I have given to too many recruits before now. You deserve more respect."

Ashe shakes her head. "You mean to help me," she says. "I am grateful for that." She holds out her hands, turns them palm-up so he can see the raw spots, where the skin is swollen taut, threatening to tear.

"If I may," he says, and waits for her nod before he actually touches her.

Instead of producing a potion, he wraps her hands in strips of muslin, cool, damp with something thicker and more cloying than water. It feels good against the blisters, draws the heat from her skin. "Where did this come from?" she asks.

"The desert cares for her own," Vossler says softly. There is something reverent in his tone, something devoted, a gentleness he shows rarely. "Breaking the leaves of the cactus grasses yields the juice." He ties the bandages at the backs of her hands, carefully, and when he would pull away, Ashe turns her hands to catch him before he can. Her hands are clumsy, but he holds still, allows her to capture him all the same. "Majesty," he says -- a warning, a reproach, a plea; she cannot tell.

"Vossler," Ashe says, and knows not how to continue. She can feel the beat of blood in her hands, where they are bandaged, where her fingers touch his sword calluses. "Thank you." It is not enough; it is everything.