Puel, Wrongsexual (puella_nerdii) wrote in het_challenge, @ 2008-02-16 23:17:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | a: puella_nerdii, f: final fantasy 12, r: valentines |
You Can't Go Home Again (FFXII, Balthier/Fran)
Title: You Can't Go Home Again
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: FFXII
Pairing: Balthier/Fran
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 3450
Recipient: lanerose
Summary:Postgame. Balthier and Fran rob a wedding - and as happens so often with weddings, Balthier runs into a guest he'd rather not encounter.
A/N: I'm so sorry this is late. RL kicked my ass. But hopefully this still satisfies.
“Shall we make our way in together,” Fran asks, “or do you wish to cause a scene?”
“Really, Fran.” Balthier brushes his shirtsleeves clean. “I prefer to think of it as a commotion. Scene implies such immaturity.”
Fran stares at him levelly. Were she hume, she might cock an eyebrow, but as she isn’t, she doesn’t. “Semantics,” she says.
“What’s life without them?”
“Straightforward.”
He sighs. “We can be unobtrusive, if you’d like. Or at the very least, you ought to do your best to be. Viera aren’t often guests at Archadian weddings.”
“Nor are sky pirates, I would think.” She lifts her head and sniffs the air; the fur on her ears rustles ever so slightly in a passing breeze. “I believe our way is clear.”
“Ah, good.”
“Hold still.” Fran lifts her hand, her skin illuminated from within and glowing golden brown, drawing in shining flecks of mist until she’s wreathed by them; they ebb and flow around her, guided by the rush of an arcane wind, and then he feels its heat settle around him with a hiss not entirely unlike steam being released. The glamour soaks into his skin, shining before it dwindles to little more than a teasing glint, the kind he catches out of the corner of his eyes at times and can’t quite place the origin of. He smiles and takes Fran’s hand, careful to cup her palm and not her claws. Vanishga has its uses, though most of them come into play in the cities and not the wilds. A good thing for the cities that the magick’s tricky to master, and most thieves don’t know how to channel Mist without lighting up like beacons. But Fran’s good at sniffing out the gaps in the sturdiest palings, little cracks where the Mist flows in unheeded. Fran’s good at a great many things.
The damndest part about Vanishga is keeping silent. Fran has no trouble with it, of course—she sidles through alleys and slips past clusters of ardents and slinks up against billings with nary a twitch of her ears—but he has to stifle himself from uttering an oath when a child draped in frills of lace and velvet (the poor thing) nearly treads on his foot. But she brushes past him, barely a hand’s length away, and he holds his breath as she picks up a stone and tosses it over a balcony, nearly hitting a mumper below. Children really are more trouble than they’re worth. The gazes of most of the gentry they encounter, however, simply slip over them. It would give them a headache to try to puzzle out what the disturbance in their perception was, and no good Archadian would wish to wrinkle his brow in such an unsightly fashion.
They reach the manor at last, and in good time. Balthier glances through the window; the musicians strike up a Nabradian reel, and the ladies whirl across the dance floor like spinning tops, their skirts rippling in their wake. The men lean against the wall and clap in time to the music, and when the last note of the reel rings out, the ladies, pink-cheeked all, curtsey to their partners, accompanied by much applause. He shakes his head. He wonders if any of them remember Nabradia at all. It would be nice to think they dance in tribute to it now—nice and patently untrue.
He doesn’t hear Fran behind him, he hasn’t a chance of doing that, but he feels her at his back, feels the heat of her skin so close to his. He nods, and she embeds her claws into the cracks in the stone, scaling the side of the building. He’s content to watch this part. She has only a little way to climb and she never looks down, not even when a gust of wind threatens to flatten her against the wall. Her breath forms a fine mist against the window when she reaches it, and he thinks he sees a trace of a smile slip across her face as she pries a claw into the lock and twists, snapping it cleanly. He would applaud, but he’d rather not break Vanishga’s hold, not just yet.
Fran lifts the sill and slips inside. She casts down a length of rope for him. Always so courteous, is his Fran, so willing to accommodate those without claws or any of her many other wonderful features. He’s sprightly enough to make the climb without much trouble; the rope is good and taut in his hands, and his boots seem to half-float up the side of the stone façade. He heaves himself through the window with considerably less grace than she showed, but it’s to be expected.
“May we talk now?” he whispers. The light withdraws from his skin, fleeing to the corners of the room and beyond.
He thinks Fran sighs. “We may as well.”
They’ve arrived in a pantry, as best as he can determine. Casks of wine line one wall, and loaves of bread sit on the shelves lining another. He might have to take that Rozarrian vintage for himself. “I confess, I’m feeling a certain excitement about all of this, Fran.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve never robbed a wedding before.” He rolls his shoulders back.
“And have you wished to?”
“Not wished to, precisely. But it’s something new.” He creeps to the door and presses his ear flat against it. The musicians strike up a stately waltz, and he fancies he hears the whisper of feet gliding across the floor. “I wonder if they’ll even notice what we’ve retrieved.”
“Perhaps. Humes are not the most observant of species.”
“Astute of you,” he says. He listens again and makes out a faint cry of “to the Emperor!” rising from the rooms below. “They’ve begun toasting, I’ll wager.” He half-snorts. “They really do notice little, don’t they?”
“They live as they choose to,” Fran says. “As do we.”
“Yes, but their choices are fool’s choices.” He straightens. “No matter. It makes our jobs easier, I suppose. Shall we go?”
Fran leans against the wall, a small pile of dust puffing from the ceiling and cascading down her arm. “It troubles you.”
“Hm?”
“All Emperors Solidor are alike to them.” The crimson of her eyes darkens, draws him in. He coughs.
“It’s foolish, that’s all,” he says. “And I suppose they’ll adjust their games to fit Larsa’s whims, whatever those turn out to be. Join me at the door, won’t you? You’ll have a better sense of whether or not it’s safe for us to leave than I will.”
She nods and crouches, her ears flicking ever so slightly. She seems perfectly still unless you know how to look at her, unless you know to look for the flaring of her nose, the twitch of her ears. “We are safe.”
“Good.” He inches the door open, and the two of them steal out. The upper halls are deserted save for them; no servants scuttling about, no lords and ladies seeking privacy, nothing. “It seems we’ve a spot of good fortune today,” he whispers to Fran, who nods once and pauses at the edge of the servants’ staircase.
“This should keep us far enough removed from the main activity. It will do.”
Bless Archades and its instinctive recoil at the thought of servants making themselves visible as they go about their business. Oh, the horror of such a thought. But it makes his and Fran’s job all the easier. They needn’t even use Vanishga for this, merely common sense and stealth. “And this should take us to where they’re storing the gifts.” He slides the Nihopalaoa out of one of the black leather pouches at his side and dons it. “They’ll have a guard on it—it’s the Archadian way—but they should be no trouble.”
“Do you know any of the guests?” Fran asks.
“They all looked the same to me.” He starts to creep down the staircase. Fran’s hand rests on his shoulder, halting him. He sighs. “I didn’t look hard enough. Best not to.”
She doesn’t even give him a nod at that. They descend the rest of the way in silence.
“Why so many questions today?” he whispers once they’ve reached the foot of the stairs.
“You seemed enthusiastic about this venture.”
“I’m no longer allowed to enjoy my job?”
She doesn’t answer him. She has a habit of doing that.
“I want the Hand of Glory. I think it ought to light the way to the Cache of Glabados for us. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is it?” she asks.
He rolls his eyes back and tsks. “Come, Fran. We’ve a wedding to rob.”
“As you wish,” she says, though she could try to sound more cheerful about it. “The servants’ hall is empty now, but will not be for long.”
“Then we’d best make haste,” he says.
They do; the hallway’s ceiling is a bit low for Fran, who has to duck to keep from scraping her ears against the beams, but they identify the room where the gifts are being held easily enough—it’s the one with guards posted outside. They press themselves against the wall just around the corner from the men, and Balthier removes two vials from his pouch, a thick and sluggish sort of purple liquid sloshing inside.
“I’ve never understood why they call it Alarm Clock,” he murmurs to Fran. The Nihopalaoa shines with a sickly green light, and he imagines he feels the vials tremble in his hands. “That ought to do it.”
He edges further down the wall, pulls out the corks with his teeth, and lobs the vials at the guards’ feet; the liquid congeals around them, and as they look down to see the source of the disturbance, the purple fumes rise and vanish down the guards’ noses and mouths. They haven’t even time to raise the alarm before they sag at the knees and slump to the ground. Balthier walks more boldly down the hall and pockets the empty vials. He rather feels like whistling, but Fran wouldn’t like it if he did, he’s sure. “I do love this,” he says, tapping the Nihopalaoa.
“It has its uses,” Fran says.
“Indeed it does.” They haven’t even bothered to bespell or lock the doors. He supposes the happy bride and groom couldn’t conceive of anyone ruining their perfect day. He and Fran step over the prone bodies and into the room.
The surroundings aren’t entirely opulent—he sees cracks and chips aplenty in the paint coating the walls—but the treasure displayed before them is. He can’t suppress a small whistle at it. “What generosity, Fran. I find it warming.”
“We seek the Hand of Glory,” Fran reminds him.
“If we can find it amidst all this.” He waves his arm around to encompass the two tables stacked high with all manner of—everything, really: necklaces dripping with semiprecious stones; vintage wines yet untasted; silks and spices from Rozarria and beyond; a tome or two of Archadian history, the leather bindings cracked and dusty.
The last item catches Fran’s eye. “An unusual choice.”
“I’d prefer those books to the rest of it, at any rate,” he says.
Fran’s more careful when she disturbs the pile, weaving her claws around anything likely to rip or tear. A length of silk slides across her palm and pools on the ground.
“You’d look fetching in that,” he says, retrieving it and holding it against her skin. It’s a rich cream color; there are accents of the shade in the fur on her ears and tail.
She looks down at him. “You are not planning our wedding, are you?”
He almost jumps backwards before he sees her smile and wind the end of the fabric around her wrist. “Nothing of the sort, my dear. That was a good jest, though. I believe my heart skipped a beat.”
“It is hardly something one would expect out of a sky pirate.”
He drapes the silk across her shoulders; it rustles as it trails down her back. His hands slide across it, shiver down it until he feels where the fabric ends and the warmth of her skin begins, and his hands keep trailing down until they find the curve of her thighs, lean and muscular. “Nor of a viera.”
“The concept implies possession,” she says. “We do not belong to each other, but to the Wood. We are her sisters and her daughters, her friends, her caretakers.”
“So you’re all brides of the Wood.” He leans forward, almost on tiptoe, and presses his lips to the base of her neck. She arches ever so slightly, molding her body to his.
“If you like.” Her hand grips the back of his head, and she weaves her claws in his hair as their lips meet—she’s softer than satin and warmer, too, her mouth blazing with the heat of Golmore Jungle—
“What is—” a voice behind him calls, then cuts off. He tries to disentangle himself from Fran, though he’d really rather not. “Ffamran?” the voice repeats, and the heat he’s received from Fran collapses in on itself and darkens.
He eases back onto the soles of his feet and pivots around, his stomach somewhere around his shoes. “Hello, Viruna.”
Viruna Richese, formerly Viruna Bunansa, stares gape-mouthed at Balthier, her breeding forgotten, and it’s only Fran’s presence that prevents Balthier from staring gape-mouthed back. He supposes it’s a risk he ought to have taken into account—when you rob people formerly of your social class, you’re bound to run into someone you know sooner or later, and if your eldest sister is notorious for attending every social gathering known to humekind—well. He hasn’t seen her since her son was born, but she’s shed a good deal of weight since then, and she’s colored her hair red. “You look different,” he manages to say.
“As do you,” she says, blinking. He hopes she’s still in too much shock to call for the guard. He rests his hand on Fran’s wrist. If ever I needed Vanishga…“No doubt you’ve all manner of questions, but I’m afraid this is strictly a business outing, so I’ve no time—”
“Ffamran, don’t you dare,” she begins, but he starts: there, under a bolt of fine linen, a glint of scarletite. The Hand of Glory’s said to be wrought from that. If he can make off with it before Viruna does anything foolish—
“Ffamran,” she hisses, marching towards him, “you’ll give me an explanation or by Faram I’ll have every guard in this place on your head, and your lady’s, too.”
“I’ve never been good at those,” he says. “And don’t you dare laugh, Fran.”
“Don’t you dare be evasive with me, you haven’t been seen in Archadia in years and now you sneak into Sasarai’s wedding like a—like a common thief—”
“I’ll have you know I’m an uncommon thief,” he mutters. Too loudly. Viruna shrieks, just as she used to do when he pulled her hair. He winces. “Now you’ll have every guard in the place here.”
“And I never anticipated a need to post guards against my little brother, you dolt.” Spots of color rise on her cheeks, and she marches towards him, her hand raised high and reared back.
Fran makes no attempt to save him from all this, of course. She’s also managed to back up towards the table; she’s seen the Hand of Glory, too. She shifts to place herself between Viruna’s gaze and the Hand, then reaches back slowly—slowly—he prays Viruna’s too infuriated to pay Fran any close mind.
“And it isn’t Ffamran,” he says before she gets the chance to swing at him. He rubs his cheek, remembering the sting of Viruna’s backhands. How lovely to know that some things never change.
“What do you mean it isn’t Ffamran?”
“My name. It’s Balthier.”
Her hand slackens. “Balthier,” she repeats. “The sky pirate Balthier? Do you know the size of the bounty on your—”
“Quite aware, thank you. And I wouldn’t expect Archadia to pay the bounty, in any case,” not unless Larsa’s extraordinarily annoyed with the pair of them right now, which he might well be, come to think of it. Fran’s fingers close around the base of the Hand of Glory, and he thinks, Good.
“Emperor Larsa isn’t so soft as all that,” Viruna snaps.
“We are aware,” Fran says, and Viruna starts—Balthier isn’t sure how she managed to overlook Fran’s presence before now, as he’s never managed to do such a thing, but apparently she’s accomplished the feat.
“She’s Balthier’s—she’s your partner, isn’t she?” Viruna asks. She reaches for the edge of the table and grips it until her knuckles pale. “The viera.”
“Fran. Yes. And she’s a truer companion than any Archadian’s ever been, though I got on well enough with your Emperor.”
Viruna mouths the word “Emperor” and shakes her head, deciding not to inquire further into the matter. “You’re mad.”
“So Fran tells me.” In a liquid move, Fran slides the Hand of Glory into a leather bag about her waist; her claws never have the chance to catch on the material. He doubts Viruna noticed. He’d not have noticed if he hadn’t been watching her out of the corner of his eye. “And though I hate to make my excuses so soon—”
“You’re always running somewhere, aren’t you?” She sighs, sinking onto the bench.
“It’s the life of a sky pirate, Viruna.” His temples throb.
“I suppose you couldn’t stay—of course you can’t stay, you’re about to rob Sasarai, I must be as mad as you are.”
“Our father’s legacy.”
She rests her forehead in her palm. “You’re fortunate you didn’t see him at the end.”
Balthier’s thumb traces the skin above his wrist where Famfrit’s glyph lies branded, etched in blood and Mist. “Fortunate,” he repeats.
“He called my son by your name often enough.”
Fran is merciful; she breaks the silence stretching between them. Her hand presses against his shoulder. “We should go,” she says. “Before anyone thinks to inquire after your sister, or the guards.”
“Thank you, Fran.” He unwinds the silk still trailing from her wrist and sweeps it up, folding it into one of his pouches. “For you. In Rozarria, the bride and groom give gifts to the guests. It’s a fine tradition.”
“This isn’t Rozarria,” Viruna says through clenched teeth.
“I know where this is,” he says. “All too well.”
“You could—” She shakes her head. “If what you say about the Emperor is true, then you could—it might be safe if you visited. Perhaps. You could bring your lady along, if you wished.”
“I don’t know if I’d call her my lady,” he says.
“It is kind of you to offer,” Fran says. She seems to know Archadian courtesies better than he does half the time.
“Still.” She turns her head at the sound of footsteps rattling along the hallway. “You could see your nephew. He has a knack for mechanics.”
“I’m not Ffamran any longer.” He runs his fingers through the pile of gifts. Jewelry drips through his fingers. “And Balthier doesn’t have nephews.”
“Go, then.” She turns away from him, fixing her hair. Several tendrils have escaped the tight bun pinned high on her head. “I’ll tell them I saw nothing. Nothing more than a phantom.”
Fran’s hands are on his shoulders again as she draws Mist through herself and into him, warping the air around them to deflect any curious eyes. By the time Vanishga’s settled under his skin, the door flies open, and a small party of men and women decked in velvets appears.
“What happened?” their leader asks. Fran motions to Balthier, and together they sidle through the open door, one after the other, squeezing by the men and women with barely a hair’s-length of space between themselves and the doorframe.
As they creep towards the stairs, Balthier hears Viruna’s reply, drifting to him on a lazy current of air: “I didn’t see. I saw the guards asleep outside and thought I ought to investigate, but I didn’t see…”
Fran’s hand finds his, and they make their way back to the Strahl in silence. They’re little more than a disturbance in the air as they pass through the streets of Archades, unworthy of remark or attention.
“Where shall we go next?” Fran asks. She swathes the Hand of Glory in the silk they purloined.
“Wherever we like,” he says. He rests his head against her shoulder. The Strahl’s engines glow, leaving the spires of Archades in the distance.