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FFXII: Vanity
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: Balthier must learn to make do and mend. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
the_sandsea.
"Are all Humes so?"
Balthier raises an eyebrow at Fran, still straightening his shirt, tugging at the cuffs. He can see a trace of annoyance in her eyes, as well as genuine curiosity. Sometimes he thinks he sees affection there, too, but they haven't been together long and he could well be imagining it. She is, after all, a Viera. "Vain, you mean? Not necessarily. Many in Archades are. Others cannot afford to be so and must make do."
"You are not in Archades now."
"Thank you. I had noticed that, though. That does not mean I have to be a slob, though. We are not poor."
Fran's mouth curls into her smile without her leave. "So what then is your definition of 'poor'? The Strahl is crippled and we have no money, and no loot to sell as of yet. We spent the last of our money on your new clothes."
"We did?" For a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, his eyebrows crinkled a little. Then he shrugs. "No matter. I will learn to make do, now. Perhaps I will even learn to sew."
Fran pictures him mending his own clothes, the stitching that of a clumsy beginner, and wrinkles her nose. "Perhaps we can stretch to paying for someone to do that, if it proves necessary. I would not advice learning to sew on your clothes if you truly care about your appearance."
A rueful smile, now. "Perhaps you are right."
"Anyway," she says, smoothly carrying on and ignoring anything more he might have to say. "You must now learn to be more... economical. You are not Ffamran Mid Bunansa, the son of a rich and influential scientist. You yourself have said that you have left that life, that identity, behind you. Now you are Balthier, a sky pirate, son of nobody. You dodge the law, now, and save money when you can as any other sky pirate will, and learn to scrape by."
"You have not wasted your time out of the Wood, thus far," he says: not an agreement, nor a disagreement, but simply an acknowledgement.
"I have common sense," she says, not quite as bitingly as she might. "I am Viera, that does not mean I cannot observe a Hume and see him being proud over a thing of little consequence."
"I have precious little to be proud of," he points out. "My ship, she is falling apart. Whatever pride I had in my family must be now laid aside -- as you say. I am a coward and run from responsibility, and from my own father. If I may not be proud of my appearance, what may I be proud of?"
"You may be as proud of yourself as now even with patched clothes. You ran from a life that was not right for you -- you were brave to act so. The worth is in you, not in your clothing. You are comforting yourself with an illusion, in any case, if you are not the man I already know you to be."
Balthier sighs quietly, not quite looking at her. "Perhaps you are right," he says. Fran looks at him, though, and yes, there is fondness there; a warmth in her eyes.
When he next buys a new shirt, the first torn and bloody after a hunt that was nearly disastrous, Fran raises her eyebrows. But she remains silent, for now. A man must have his comforts, after all, and Balthier still has to learn.
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: Balthier must learn to make do and mend. For
the_sandsea."Are all Humes so?"
Balthier raises an eyebrow at Fran, still straightening his shirt, tugging at the cuffs. He can see a trace of annoyance in her eyes, as well as genuine curiosity. Sometimes he thinks he sees affection there, too, but they haven't been together long and he could well be imagining it. She is, after all, a Viera. "Vain, you mean? Not necessarily. Many in Archades are. Others cannot afford to be so and must make do."
"You are not in Archades now."
"Thank you. I had noticed that, though. That does not mean I have to be a slob, though. We are not poor."
Fran's mouth curls into her smile without her leave. "So what then is your definition of 'poor'? The Strahl is crippled and we have no money, and no loot to sell as of yet. We spent the last of our money on your new clothes."
"We did?" For a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, his eyebrows crinkled a little. Then he shrugs. "No matter. I will learn to make do, now. Perhaps I will even learn to sew."
Fran pictures him mending his own clothes, the stitching that of a clumsy beginner, and wrinkles her nose. "Perhaps we can stretch to paying for someone to do that, if it proves necessary. I would not advice learning to sew on your clothes if you truly care about your appearance."
A rueful smile, now. "Perhaps you are right."
"Anyway," she says, smoothly carrying on and ignoring anything more he might have to say. "You must now learn to be more... economical. You are not Ffamran Mid Bunansa, the son of a rich and influential scientist. You yourself have said that you have left that life, that identity, behind you. Now you are Balthier, a sky pirate, son of nobody. You dodge the law, now, and save money when you can as any other sky pirate will, and learn to scrape by."
"You have not wasted your time out of the Wood, thus far," he says: not an agreement, nor a disagreement, but simply an acknowledgement.
"I have common sense," she says, not quite as bitingly as she might. "I am Viera, that does not mean I cannot observe a Hume and see him being proud over a thing of little consequence."
"I have precious little to be proud of," he points out. "My ship, she is falling apart. Whatever pride I had in my family must be now laid aside -- as you say. I am a coward and run from responsibility, and from my own father. If I may not be proud of my appearance, what may I be proud of?"
"You may be as proud of yourself as now even with patched clothes. You ran from a life that was not right for you -- you were brave to act so. The worth is in you, not in your clothing. You are comforting yourself with an illusion, in any case, if you are not the man I already know you to be."
Balthier sighs quietly, not quite looking at her. "Perhaps you are right," he says. Fran looks at him, though, and yes, there is fondness there; a warmth in her eyes.
When he next buys a new shirt, the first torn and bloody after a hunt that was nearly disastrous, Fran raises her eyebrows. But she remains silent, for now. A man must have his comforts, after all, and Balthier still has to learn.