Author's Note: 'Crystmas' is spelled that way on purpous. It'll be explained in 'Long Live the Queen'. We're not to that point in that story yet, but when we are, I'll post the chapter number here.

Genre: drabble/Humor/Humor
Characters: Balthier and Fran
Pairings: NONE friendship only
Summary: You know that one present you got this year that you were suprised with, but not necessesarily against? Well, Balthier got one of those. And even though he's functioning, Fran is... well...

Slippers
By: Mazzie May

A few days past Crystmas, Balthier finally gets around to his P.O. box. Oh, it's a little risky, of course, but it's under an assumed name and it's terribly necessary; it's not as though one could just send something to the Strahl. Besides, he has the account set up in Balfonheim, no one there is going to be suspicious.

Nothing particularly special (thank God), as usual, except the clerk waves him back to the counter. Balthier waits, appearing pleasantly patient as the large, jolly Bangaa disappears into the back room. He's leaning against the counter, checking the time, when it returns with small package.

"Got here just in time for Crystmas, you know," it chides kindly. "Of course, you weren't around to get it, were you?"

"You know how it is, Yvain," Balthier returns. "Places to be, tombs to raid…" he sighs mellow dramatically as he signs for the package. He takes the little thing off the counter and exits with a polite good-bye.

Back on the Strahl, he punches in the code for the locking mechanism to his and Fran's room, wonder where the dear is. He sets the parcel on the side table and, after concluding that it wasn't anything destructive, opens it. The first thing he finds is a card. The gift is from Vaan. What a surprise.

Hey, I got these for Penelo, but she already bought herself a pair. And I didn't buy you anything for Crystmas, anyway. But I bet out of all the stuff you have, you don't have these!

Stay alive,

Vaan

Balthier tsks, wondering what on earth he and little Penelo could be the same size in. He raises his brow curiously and his lips part in surprise as he stares into the box. The little note falls to the floor and disappears into the mess below. He pulls them out of the package with a low a whistle. He holds them out in front of them, turning left and right and over, just to be sure they are what he thinks they are.

He mouths the word "wow" slowly, dropping his arms, wondering what to do with them. "Waste not, want not…" he breaths, sitting onto his unmade bed, pulling at his shoes.

--

There's no point in denying it, and Balthier understands why Penelo got her own pair. They're self fitting, he's realized, which was the only way Vaan could send him something meant for the girl.

The bunny-slippers are terribly, terribly comfortable.

He's been shuffling about between the cockpit and his room for hours, pretending to be doing something of at least slight importance, but really just enjoying slippers. He wrinkles his nose just a smidge as he straightens the stack of maps. Not slippers. House Shoes.

When Fran enters the room, she's wiping at her blackened hands with what was probably a white cloth a few hours ago. She takes one look at his feet and glares at him. He raises both eyebrows in curiosity and she tosses the rag onto the desk next to him and leaves.

Not even twenty-four hours go by before she's slamming her tools onto the floor in the cockpit. The navigation system's gone a little funny and she plans on fixing it. Rather angrily, Balthier thinks as he watches from the seat behind the pilot's.

"Dear Fran," he begins, legs crossed, hands clasped loosely on his lap, bunny-house shoes snug on his feet. "Whatever has you in such a right state?"

"Nothing," she bites, dropping from one knee to two as she begins unscrewing the paneling. Once she removes it, she nearly throws it behind and Balthier has to move a little to avoid getting clipped by metal.

His mouth is in a small "oh" shape as he moves back into her view. "Are you sure? Because you almost decapitating my lovely head leads me in another direction."

Fran huffs from underneath the consul.

"You've many talents," he says, tilting his head to have a better view of her. "Controling your temper, however, is not one of them."

She pulls out from the wires and leans back on her pointed feet, looking absolutely furious. "I do not prance about, wearing shoes with Hume heads on them."

Balthier blinks innocently down at his feet and bounces his foot up and down. Ah-ha. Just be sure, though… "You really don't think I 'prance', do you?"

The sound she makes is something growl like and she tears back into the machinery. "Am I a decent prancer?"

A wrench whizzes past and he sighs. "They're rather comfortable, you know. Far more than those heels of yours, I would think." A screwdriver suddenly appears next to his head, imbedded into the rest. "Point made, dearest."

R&R please, any commentary appreciated.