Author's Note: Highly improbable, but totally fun for me. 'Cause I played the game and thought, wow, that was so a boyfriend-slap.

Ashe

ｘ

It had honestly started as a bit of harmless vengeance.

Before the Occuria restored her faith in decency and justice and propriety―however inadvertently―back in the early stages, when she was so thoroughly fixated on exacting revenge on anyone she deemed had wronged her, Vossler handed her over to that traitor.

Worse, he told her to put her trust in Basch's sword, seemed to consider the situation for a fleeting moment, then quickly scuttled off to continue supporting the resistance without the burden of her presence. So, really, if her wrath began to manifest in... odd ways, it was most definitely Vossler's fault.

She managed to bear the shameful necessity of having to fight alongside her former knight well―that is, until she awoke to find herself nestled in yet another irritatingly warm coverlet left by an irritatingly invisible benefactor. Because he clearly considered her so weak and so helpless as to be provided with warmth. In a desert.

Once, when she was furiously stomping through a cavern―unsure how capturing the Cluckatrice could possibly benefit her crusade against Archadia―she stumbled upon a tiny cockatrice and watched as Basch swiftly materialized out of one of the passages, summarily disposing of the creature. Because he obviously did not think her capable of felling a beast as dangerous as a knot of yarn.

Ashe, initially, sincerely believed he was lulling her into a false sense of security while he secretly prepared to annihilate Dalmasca. However, when he continued performing his knightly duties as though he'd never left her side―the way he had when she'd been younger and quite... pleased with him―she decided he was insulting her.

So, that night, when they settled south of the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea, beneath one of the refineries, she crept to his bedding―with all the stealth of a berserk zombie―and stuck a few jagged pebbles underneath his linens. If Vaan saw her, he did not comment. He did, however, silently help her pick the sharpest rocks, displaying a frightening amount of glee.

To her disdain, she spent the remainder of the night struggling to fall asleep, preoccupied with self-congratulatory thoughts and visualizing Basch's discomfort.

So, of course, when he greeted the rising sun with a peaceful, almost serene, sigh, and flexed his well-rested muscles―and she actually remembered he had spent two years in a cage―Ashe decided to expand her efforts.

In the Nam-Yensa Sandsea, beyond the border tunnel, while Basch was bathing at the bottom of a hill, she snuck to his supply pack and loosened every silver buckle, unwound every leather band, and tore every threaded stitch. If Balthier saw her, he did not comment. He did, however, grin flirtatiously, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

She waited for Basch's return with an unhealthy sort of anticipation, too distracted to enjoy a meal, preferring instead to dine on the wholly inappropriate image of his impending mortification.

So, of course, when he returned and wore his unbuckled, unbound, unthreaded scraps of clothing with as much pride as if he were modeling royal robes―and she suddenly noticed he was not... horribly hideous―Ashe realized she would need reinforcements.

Inside the Tomb of Raithwall, halfway down one of the royal passages, when a blind lich hexed Basch to sleep, she accepted Vossler's suggestion to stay behind... a little too eagerly―and waited patiently for the demon wall to partially obscure her from sight, then pounced and braided Basch's hair. If Vossler saw her, he did not comment. He did, however, draw a deep, suffering sigh, and shuffled toward an exit.

And though she had not planned to, she grew bored and leaned against Basch, tapping her blade on the ground in time with his sleepy breaths, humming softly about her newfound skills as a stylist.

So, of course, when she found him watching her quietly, tiny braids falling across his eyes, his back slowly straightening to support her weight, and his arms automatically steadying her hips―and she felt her cheeks burn inexplicably―Ashe wondered if, perhaps, there wasn't another way.

Before stumbling upon the nomad village, somewhere in the Giza Plains, when they huddled together for warmth and feasted on wet gator chops, she cleared her throat with unassuming grace and―in what was possibly her most covert scheme yet―slowly unfastened her bodice. If Fran saw her, she did not comment. She did, however, pull Ashe aside, and efficiently shortened her skirt.

Consequently, Ashe suffered through an afternoon of torrential rain, shivering and reassuring herself that Basch's subsequent distress would be more than adequate.

So, of course, when he caught a glimpse and his cheeks darkened slightly―and when she bent over to pull up her boots, considerably―she found herself quickly averting her eyes, and as he kept his distance, rushing heedlessly off into battle, Ashe thought that he needed to learn his place.

Aboard the Strahl, she requested a cabin with a chamber for her knight.

But Balthier said, "Wouldn't you rather... have your privacy, Princess?" which Fran told her meant: "The ship is small."

Luckily, the flight from the Ancient City of Giruvegan to the Sochen Cave Palace lasted seven nights; on the first one, she hid his boots under her dresser, but he never came to claim them. On the second, she stole his potion pack, but he bought a new one from a stowaway moogle. On the third, she sold his Deathbringer to the same exasperated moogle, but Basch remained mysteriously absent. And if Penelo saw all this, she did not comment.

Except for when she did.

"Ashe," she mumbled. "He's a guy." Off Ashe's blank expression, she added, "He doesn't―don't you... oh, never mind."

On the fourth night, there was a knock on her door.

"Majesty," he said in a low voice.

She quickly stuffed his knee pads under a decorative cushion, then, composed and collected, commanded, "Enter."

He obeyed, inclining his head in greeting, and asked, "Am I to understand you are in need of my services?"

And this was where Ashe decided that nothing inspired forgiveness quite like retribution.

"Perhaps," she replied.

Confused, Basch glanced about the room, waiting for further instruction.

"This... weapon―" she improvised, pointing to the silver blade fastened to one of the cabin walls.

"―is an ornament," he coughed.

She froze.

"Nevertheless," he continued gruffly, striding over to the wall, "if you are intent on learning how to wield it..."

And though she certainly wasn't, she let him stand behind her―and when he attempted to do so with as much decency as a man was biologically limited to, she braced against him and tried to recall how the simple concept of punishing him had mutated into a sort of reward for her.

His hair was brushing against her shoulder, his breath was warming her neck, his fingers were guiding hers, and Ashe briefly considered reminding him about a certain incident she'd instigated several years into her adolescence.

"We have visitors," he murmured.

Partly disappointed that he could concentrate while she obviously could not, Ashe left him holding the blade, and rushed to open the door with a force fierce enough to send two squatting blobs flying backwards.

One of the blobs recovered first, sitting up and demanding medical attention.

"C'mon, guys, hurry up," whined Vaan petulantly, rubbing his head. "I've got a hundred gil riding on this."

Penelo offered a sheepish smile, dusting herself off. "I actually have two hundred on Balthier, so please continue respecting each other from a distance?"

Cheeks burning with an emotion that hovered between embarrassment and anger, Ashe hastily pushed all three out, slamming the door and leaning against it with a huff, promising herself that―when she eventually became queen―she would definitely criminalize gambling.

On the fifth night, when she was blindsided with the sudden realization that soon, she would either perish or reclaim her birthright―both of which seemed equally appropriate and equally terrifying―she found herself tapping her index finger on his door, hoping he wouldn't actually be able to hear such an unobtrusive sound.

"Aye," came the instant reply, so she cautiously slid the door ajar and peeked inside.

Then quickly backtracked.

Basch, with wet hair, was dangerous. This, she had learned during long Dalmascan summers, when he―unaware of the army of squealing attendants lurking in the shadows and quietly chanting for him to disrobe, disrobe already―would drink from the stone well and run water through his hair, and she―unaware of the sidelong glances she drew from the knights―would watch him.

On the sixth night, Vaan attempted to tear his hair out.

"It should count!" he shouted, slamming his palms on the table.

"But it doesn't," replied Penelo calmly, scribbling a letter to Larsa.

"He was dripping wet and she was leaving his room," argued Vaan, trying to swat the pen away.

Penelo shook her head. "No, Vaan."

"Fra-an, tell her."

Fran narrowed her eyes sharply.

"Viera do not engage in..." she began, then gracefully turned around, her ears flopping a little. "Five hundred on Basch."

Mortified, Ashe glanced at Basch, who stood by her side in the curving corridor, focusing on the stack of maps they'd been delivering to Balthier.

"Majesty," he hesitated. "It may not be my place to inquire, but―"

"It is the Nethicite," she assured him, quickening her steps. "It has done... things to them."

"I see."

On the seventh night, when they disembarked north of the Sochen Cave Palace, near the chamber of the chosen, she bested a slew of imps and fiends―with all the agility of a giant tortoise―and healed Basch first. After all, mending his cuts and bruises surely compensated for having loaded his linens with jagged pebbles.

And though a person of her rank needn't have, Ashe resumed reciprocating; once, when the dungeon entrance he was guarding began to frost over, she contemplated fetching him a quilt, then decided it would not be appropriate nor would it technically make amends for having... stripped him of his clothing.

So she spent the night sitting by his side instead, bundled up in a wolf pelt.

"Forgive my boldness," he spoke eventually, voice peculiarly soft.

"Mm?"

"Have I burdened Your Majesty of recent?" he questioned, eyes closed and head resting against a crystallized rock formation.

She shifted, and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Not of recent, no."

He opened his eyes but didn't look at her. "Earlier, then."

"Basch," she asked casually. "Do you think me incapable of ruling Dalmasca?"

"I do not," he replied, in much the same manner.

"Of handling a cockatrice?"

He finally glanced her way. "Some... duties continue to linger long after the need for them has passed."

If her heart skipped a beat, it was assuredly due to the icy breeze sweeping through her pelt. "And if it hasn't?"

There was pride in his voice as he muttered, "It has."

She sat in silence for a moment, then frowned and tugged at his hair until he toppled over, his head landing against her knees with a soft thump.

"Some things do linger," she agreed haughtily, brushing her fingers over his scar.

And though he'd never been one of the knights who'd watched her stroll across the courtyard, he did not immediately attempt to rise―preferring instead to look away, his brows knitted.

"Majesty―"

"Do not interrupt me," she warned, but the warmth in her voice belied the sharpness of her words.

He caught her hand, fixing his eyes on hers. "I never have."

"One of your most brilliant resolutions, certainly," she mused sullenly and relaxed her wrist, adding, "...though it would have been helpful if you'd intervened before certain unfortunate accidents... escalated."

"The rocks?" he noted cleverly, releasing her hand and attempting to sit up.

"Among other travesties," she grumbled guiltily, warming her fingers in his hair and effectively preventing him from shifting.

"I knew not it was you," he lied, face perfectly unreadable.

She bit back a penitent smile. "The list of those who wish you harm isn't that long, Basch."

"Majesty..." he corrected, "...aiding to lead Dalmasca to her ruin is a crime of high treason—"

"Which you did not commit," she cut in sharply.

He met her eyes and his features softened, as though he'd been waiting to hear that—from her.

Startled, she backed off, surprised to find herself bent over him in a scene eerily reminiscent of the one from three years ago, when, tempted by the circumstances—him, asleep on a stone bench, one leg dangling off; her, tiptoeing across the grass, heart pounding madly—she stole something from him.

But of course, now, in an unnamed cavern somewhere in the vast expanse of Ivalice, Basch was quite awake, and she was quite a bit more mature, so she set right her posture and bit her bottom lip, content to trade the last vestiges of vengeance for this.

After all, soon, with the help of her knight and her people, she would become Queen, and have anything—anyone—she wanted.

ｘ

Deep in the icy burrow, crouching behind a large boulder, Penelo slapped her palm against the cavern wall with a mournful little whine.

"Hey," she scrunched up her nose, "is it too late to change my―"

"Yes," said Fran.

Vaan smugly stuck out his hand.