a time he didn't

It's night. Balthier placed the Strahl in stealth, anchoring a few miles from Bur-Omisace. The sky is dark and shimmering, and he turns off the glowing from the panel to be able to see it clearly. He sighs, leaning backward into his seat.

He never thought contentment would come so easily - some odd years ago, it was far, far from his mind. Underlining his thoughts were all kind of dark, depressing things. He was always good at hiding them, regardless. It was a feat he became so used to, it took a while for him to realize the day that came where he didn't have much to conceal. Perhaps the feeling of holding the world in his hands gives one a greater detail of emotion.

He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the chair. He wonders if Fran feels the same way. How long has she been out of that village? Fifty-five years? Fifty-six? Surely that would be enough time to broaden her shell of feeling, would it not? He can only guess. She is impossible when he tries to ask, and he frustrates too easily when she doesn't answer. He always tells her things, now - a gradual process, at first, turned into something natural, like a habit. Sometimes, he doesn't have to say anything at all.

Speak of the devil, he thinks, once he picks up her muffled footsteps in the compartment. Think of her too long, and she's always bound to find him. He absently wonders if her ears can tune into the frequency of his mind.

He hears her stop once she stands by him, and he places his hands behind his head, yawning.

"Can't sleep?" he asks.

"No," she answers slowly. "My mind runs rapid."

He peeks up at her through one eye. He really loves how she wears his old shirts when she goes to bed.

"Whatever for? Your mind should be at ease. No bounties on our heads, a room full of gold..." he trails off tiredly.

It is silent for a long time. Balthier almost dozes off.

"That is not what ails me," she says softly.

Balthier sighs. "Do you mean to say you would tell me what ails you? Let's be serious, Fran."

"Words are a cheap way to relay what is on the mind."

At this, he blinks and tries to wake himself up. Those sound suspiciously like something he told her, once.

He shifts, looking at her. "Fran?"

She walks a few more steps until she's in front of him. She's terribly tall when he's sitting down, even without the heels.

Her eyes have a sheen to them - he's not sure what it is. He's certain he hasn't seen that look on her ever since...

Ever since that temple, and that earthquake. But really, had she honestly believed they would have died that day? Considering everything else they've been through, that was a drop in a river.

But the stare astounds him. The sleep quickly disintegrates out of his eyes, and she has his full attention. She moves a little more, and he watches her as she comes to sit in his lap. He's frozen in such surprise, he acts like he's never had a girl sit in his lap before.

"Fran..." he says, this time breathing out her name. Her heat immediately seeps into him, and he's all too aware of how his shirt rises on her when she shifts, and how it must not be long enough to conceal her bottom, how she's only wearing underwear underneath, how thin it must be. She's very close to him. He's not sure if they've ever been so close before.

"But actions are expensive," she says. Her breath reaches his face, fans out over his cheeks. He places his hands on her thighs, and they're warm and smooth, and he wants to press his palms into them, to see if they'll disappear underneath her skin.

"What shall you show me, Fran?" he asks, trying to decipher her eyes and her lips. He thinks she may be determined, and curious, and possibly even lustful, though he's pushing the thought.

She reaches up with a hand and cups his face. She runs a thumb over his cheek and down over his lips. It lingers there, and she rubs it once, looking at it then at his eyes. He isn't sure what she'll see there. He's feeling a lot of things running through him, but his heart is by far the most prominent.

He looks away from her eyes to her lips, and they've never been so tantalizing. They've never been so intimate in the way they twitch or how they look.

But he makes no move to close the space between them. He wants to wait for her, to watch everything she does. His hands tighten on her thighs, and he has to make certain that they won't wander.

Her other hand reaches over, and her nails cut the buttons. They pop off and click onto the floor, but neither of them care. Balthier doesn't feel any remorse for the shirt lost as her fingers find the line of his chest. The pads of her fingertips follow the opened gap made from his shirt, and she takes her eyes away from his face, examining his muscle and bones and structure. Her eyes burn a path inside him, and he knows she's able to see his organs attached inside him. She can feel the heat he's giving off into the chilly night air.

Her fingers end at the waistline of his pants. He ardently wishes he wasn't wearing them.

"I guess we may have to take this elsewhere - " he whispers, coming out of her spell from the halting of her fingers. He stops short when she decides to keep going.

Her hands graze sensitive fabric, and he exhales sharply. These pants are much thinner than he'd thought.

"Fran..." he trails, voice bordering on a touch of desperation.

Her eyes look back up to him, and she scoots her body closer to him, right over where he wants it most.

Then he realizes she isn't wearing anything underneath.

His eyes widen a fraction, though he's not sure either of them notices with her nose touching his nose, the heat of her mouth encompassing as completely as the heat between them. Her lips are just an inch away from him.

"Are you still the leading man?" she asks, reaching down to her thigh and unlatching his hand - he hadn't realized how tightly he was holding her - and brings it up to her chest. Her shirt's opened and unbuttoned, and when had that happened?

Her heart is a calm drumbeat under his palm. He feels it for a second, before sliding his hand down her front.

"I'm always the leading man," he says, closing his eyes, then opening them again, inhaling her deeply. "But it seems you ought to have the part, tonight."

Her lips move, and he guesses that she gives him a smile. She tilts her head, and she makes the inch disappear, cupping his face while he cups the rest of her body. He lets her have her way with him, kissing him softly first, almost like it's an experiment. No matter how many times he's kissed her before, this might be considered the first - there are so many subtle changes with her movements that if he doesn't think, he forgets where he is. His hands are as clumsy as when he was sixteen, grasping to find a balance on her, finally finding the velvety wires of her muscles, how they ripple with every shift she makes. He digs his fingers into her, jerking her as close as he can.

She gets bolder, soon, her delicate kiss turning into something less delicate - more vicious and more foolhardy. The kiss starts to remind him of her, and he likes this much better. He moves his hands up her back, underneath the shirt, and starts to fight back more enthusiastically. Her nails move down to his stomach and she pricks him with their sharpness, a deep growl reverberating between them.

He smiles against her while she scores his skin, and he's never dreamed of having it any other way.

fin.