Author's Note: A crack!fic about. . . pickles! I suggest you check out Regina Spektor's Reading Time with Pickle to get an idea of the 'tone' of this fic, and be warned that it's totally absurd but! has a hidden meaning. I'll explain it at the fic's end. This is only part one, after all.
Disclaimer: Reading Time with Pickle is a song title of Regina Spektor's, Sardo is a character from Nickelodeon's now defunct Are You Afraid Of The Dark? television show, and none of the FFXII characters are mine. I just like to play with them for a while.

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For my pickle, Katy.

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“She's been staring at it since we came in. . .” Penelo whispered behind the curtain of her hand, rising up on her toes to whisper these words to Basch, who bent his head politely to the sound of her voice and frowned thoughtfully, shifting his eyes onto the subject of conversation.

“It's just a jar,” said Vaan, shifting his weight and staring, without concern, at the ceiling above him, cupping his hands behind his head and letting out a much-aggrieved sigh. “Can't we go now?”

“Lady Ashe has our coin,” Basch muttered, addressing the impatient young man while looking intently at the princess who, he had to admit, had not moved since entering the shop: she seemed frozen in mid-step, her hands locked to her sides, arms stiff and face caught in a passing flutter of surprise; her lips were parted, the pale tiers revealing a slight shadow of black between them where flashed the white of her teeth every now and then. Her eyes shifted back and forth though did not completely stray from the jar on the shelf, which was just out of her reach and several inches above her head.

“So go take it from her,” Vaan shrugged, turning away from Basch and strolling over to a sackful of shells and small, glistening pebbles. Penelo, looking once more at Ashe with concern and something bordering on the edge of fright, moved to join him, allowing Basch the opportunity to approach the princess if he so desired and giving them a chance at privacy. Basch appreciated the young woman's consideration, and though he had oft dealt with the princess in a variety of moods and in just as many circumstances, he did not think he had ever been charged with such a peculiar situation. They were, after all, as Vaan said, just a jar – a plain jar of glass, small enough to hold at your side, full to the brim with pristine, light green fluid, and bobbing in that ichor. . .

“Pickles,” said Ashe, like a prayer, a joyous exhalation of air and sound, her body swaying from the force of it and, perhaps, the beauty.

Pickles, Basch said to himself, biting back the urge half to laugh and rush to her side, hands running to her forehead to feel for a fever.

Her exclamation, it would seem, had not gone unheard.

“Ah! So the fair lady fancies our latest batch of Sauregurke, does she?”

The owner of the Requisites came bustling to Ashe's side, hands clasped happily before him and lifting to the ceiling as if to offer thanks to the skies, his smile wide and eyes sparkling bright. Ashe simply tilted her head to him and continued staring. Basch took this as his opportunity to hasten to her side, cautious not to frighten her, or perhaps accuse her of some fever-induced dementia which rendered her speechless at a condiment.

“It's just pickles,” called Vaan from where he stood sifting his fingers through the sack of shells, delighting in the feel of soft stone rushing over his palm. He turned to look at the owner and continued the descent of his hand, sheathing himself to the wrist, while Penelo bit on her lip and chuckled quietly.

“Oh-ho, don't be so sure, m'boy!” The proprietor wagged a finger at Vaan and tutted, looking more comical than admonitory. Indeed, the sight of his long, curly black hair that seemed far too greased and lavishly cared for than, as the sign outside proposed, a humble merchant of the sundry and sumptuous would have, his equally flamboyant tunic of indigo, specked with golden, glittering stars, and small feet clad in ruby – was that slippers? Basch asked himself incredulously – was more amusing than perhaps he knew. Basch stiffened his face and willed himself to remain stern – though it was quite taxing.

“This lovely batch,” the owner now gestured his hand to the glass jar on the shelf as if unveiling a rare and beauteous treat. Ashe reacted accordingly, her eyes widening and the ghost of a gasp puffing itself from between her lips, “was recently acquired and most hard to come by, most hard, indeed. Though, of course, the customers of this fine establishment inquire after it often! Yes, yes, I have many an inquiry about this fine trinket – 'Sardo, when will you be expecting another case, I so much would like to have another' is a common phrase in my shop! T'is a thing of legend, Sauregurke – but, surely, you knew this?” His beady eyes now became large ovals, like inky saucers in his flushed face. Basch was sure he heard Penelo snort and allowed himself to bare the tiniest of smiles.

“I am afraid its legend does not exist in our home,” said Basch, eying the jar with mingled curiosity and wariness. “Mister. . . er, Sardo.”

“That's Sardo! Accent before the d and o!”The proprietor snapped, perhaps used to correcting this mistreatment of his name, but he collected himself quickly enough in order to gasp loudly, a harsh rush of air filling his lungs. He clutched at a spot over his heart and stumbled, looking horrified at Basch as if the man had uttered something most foul. Penelo was laughing in earnest now though the owner did not appear to have noticed her, nor did he seem to care to: Basch assumed this charade required his utmost attention and talent, though he doubted the man had much of the latter. “My poor man! What empty lives, empty lives. . . to not know – to not know of the Sauregarke's legend!” He righted himself hastily, drawing himself up to his full height (which was not much: he barely reached the princess's chin), “Ah, but mayhap it is my duty to pass it along. . . yes, yes my father was charged with such, as was his father before him – one might say we Sardos are the Keepers of the Sauregarke's Secrets!

“No, no!” he cried suddenly, again wagging his hand at Vaan. “There will be no need for payment, my boy, no need at all! No chops nor gil can be a suitable trade for what I am about to share with you – though I am, of course, delighted that you would be so kind as to think it.”

“I wasn't –” stammered Vaan, staring dumbfounded at the man, his hand sunk again to the wrist in the sack of shells. Basch assumed Sardo had misunderstood the boy's movements, thinking him reaching for a coin to share for the man's gracious deed. Or, mayhap, Sardo simply saw what he wanted to and invented his reasons along with it.

The man drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. He lifted his chin so that Basch could see up his nostrils (he turned his eyes from the sight, fearing a glimpse of a bogey or untamed hair) and spoke in a voice quite different from the tone he used previously. This one boomed and rumbled from some unknown reservoir of impressive skill within him, a tone a bard would adopt when relaying a epic to a crowd of dozens. Unable to help himself Basch leaned forward to listen eagerly, noting from the corner of his gaze that even Penelo and Vaan were likewise curious. Only Ashe remained uninterested, still staring at the pickle jar.

“The Sauregurke has properties most revered, ingredients regrettably unknown – and side effects quite notorious,” Sardo said, opening his eyes and peering round at them all, like a child expecting a treat or a dog looking for a pat on the head. To their silence he spluttered, “That's it!”

“So. . . it's just a jar of pickles,” said Vaan again, this time with an air of addressing a simple matter of the sky being blue and the grass green to a person prone to disagreeing with anything.

Penelo did not have it in her to even laugh: she only gaped, her mouth falling slack and comical, shaping a large O.

“Pickles,” said Ashe again, reaching out one hand to tentatively extend towards the glass. Basch quickly directed it aside, thankful that she was in too much of a daze to chastise him for it – and immediately frightened at her being in a daze at all.

“Is that aught, sir?” he asked politely, though indeed he felt rather let down. It was, after all that build up, all that hype, pomp and circumstance, just a jar of pickles on a shelf. Nothing more, and something quite less than what one expected.

“But of course!” cried the man, chuckling and shaking his double shelf of chins along with it. Basch distinctly heard Penelo shudder and vocally cringe, a tiny groan of distaste. “Why, I am at no liberty to share its mysteries with too many – else I'd be out of business! This lady here,” he gestured to Ashe, who again raised her hand to touch the jar and again Basch directed it away, a little more brusquely this time, feeling as if he were trying to fend a child off from a fire, “she, however, seems to understand the lull of Sauregurke all too well! Hasn't looked at anything else on the shelves, has she? Oh yes, I know,” he continued, shifting tones from a jubilant boom to a now somber and somewhat monotonous lurch, once again mistaking an expression (or, again, inventing his own to witness), “I would be insulted. . . if I were not simply delighted for the opportunity to pass this exquisite treasure on!”

“We're not paying for that!” Vaan cried, though it sounded more like a frightened question to Basch's ears. Basch, too, had fears of his own roiling away inside, though he did his utmost to quell them: the princess after all did have their coin purse. . . he wondered why Balthier had entrusted it to her. . . and when Balthier had managed to bestow it upon her. . . He thought he'd kept a more watchful eye than that. . .

“And I wouldn't ask you to!” The proprietor was positively roaring his delight, laughing between each word and turning more red in the face, until he resembled what Basch had heard to be a Rogue Tomato. Indeed, the resemblance between the two was now more prominent than ever: the short and stout stature, the blushing flesh, the. . . well, the absolutely absurd and irritable fact of its very presence. “Now, now I know what you're thinking!” this time he directed his fat finger-wave to Basch - Most doubtful, he quietly mused -- “--that I can't expect to run a business just handing things over to whomever I like, at any or no price at all! Well, my good man, consider this a token of my appreciation for having chosen my shop! And my absolute delight,” he bowed to Ashe, still in her trance, “for this most fair lady having found so quickly the object of her desire.”

There was a pause as tense as a taut wire; the quintet did not move, nor make much of any sound in that heavy moment.

“. . . It's just a jar of pickles,” said Vaan quietly, but Ashe was now reaching up to touch the jar and Basch had made no move to stop her, watching as she cupped her fingers around its curved brim and lifted it off its perch. She stared at is as a mother would her newborn babe: her eyes so bright and glistening, her face radiant with bliss. Ashe cradled the jar in her arms and smiled, her lips easing into the expression and looking somehow dazed, narcotic.

“Pickles,” she said warmly, peering down at the jar in her arms.

The pickles merely swayed.

---

“Has she been drugged?” Vaan asked the instant they were out of earshot of the shop (the proprietor had taken it upon himself as a good idea to wave them goodbye and encourage them to return, calling out quite loudly his best wishes for the princess and her Sauregurke, which earned quite a few stares and wary gazes that did not fade until the quartet had fled from view).

“But she hasn't eaten anything, no one could have –” started Penelo, and suddenly her face brightened. “Basch!” She cried, tugging on his sleeve and skidding to a halt. “She's probably hungry!”

“For pickles?” Vaan's voice rose comically, nearly shouting in incredulity.

Basch shrugged his shoulder with a graceful twist, loosening Penelo's grip and keeping his clutch on the princess's arm quite firm. She was now talking quietly to the jar and stroking a finger across its glass, as if under a baby's cheek. Madness. “Perhaps. . . though I would not be so quick to ignore Vaan's suggestion, either.”

“But we've been so careful. . . there's no way anyone could have slipped her something.” Penelo looked frightened, her tone pleading and strained. Basch did not know whom she was trying to convince by saying this, him or herself.

In the distance ahead, through the constantly parting and bunching crowd, Basch thought he saw a familiar face – a familiar golden vest, elaborately designed and worn over a crisp, linen shirt. His eyes narrowed and his hand tightened on Ashe's arm, who did not notice anything at all but the jar in her arms. “Perhaps t'was not a stranger,” he growled.

Penelo shook her head at once, her eyes wide, her plaited hair trembling. “Basch, no. Don't even think –”

“Quite the chore for him, Penelo!” Called the voice to match the exquisite attire. Basch watched the sky-pirate approach – no, saunter, virtually strut to them, his lips wide in a grin, his eyes flashing and his delight near unctuous. When he was close enough to the quartet he lowered his voice, though his grin did not waver nor did his eyes dim. “I do say that our publicly-much-abhorred knight has taken to much brooding – perhaps he learned it in Nalbina, I can't imagine there is much to be done in a cage for two years.”

“Do not dare to jest about that, Balthier,” said Ashe, her tone even and strong. It made three of the five companions jump; Basch felt his hand slip from her arm and could hear Penelo gasp loudly. Ashe lifted her face at last from the jar and looked upon Balthier: her eyes were clear, her face unclouded by her previous incomprehensible bliss. “Basch's imprisonment was no less brave than him fighting for my father's life.”

Balthier rolled his shoulders back, unconcerned and apparently unmoved by her chastisement. “Yes, yes, a nice gesture – oh, look, princess, you've stunned the poor man into silence.” And he jerked his chin to where Basch stood, indeed dumbfounded and dazed, his mind frantically trying to piece together the absurdity of the situation, the heartwarming honour he felt at being so warmly complimented by the princess – and utter terror at what the hell was wrong with that jar.

The pirate tilted his head and frowned, puzzled. He pointed at the Sauregarke in Ashe's arms and asked, “What've you got there, princess?”

And her face shifted again, once more radiant with joy. Her eyes glazed and her mouth slack, she lifted the jar so that Balthier might stare at it – and indeed he did, amused at first but. . . no, surely not him as well? . . . Perhaps it was a joke between the two of them, a ruse previously concocted. Basch would have been eager to believe it if he thought the princess might waste her time constructing such a pointless distraction with, of all their companions, a lawless sky-pirate. “Pickles,” she breathed as one does the name of Faram.

Balthier's eyes grew glazed as well. Basch could hear Penelo moan quietly, “Oh, no!”, could hear Vaan sigh in exasperation, could almost see the boy rolling his eyes and slumping his shoulders, but he tuned his ears only to the pirate's response.

“Pickles,” whispered Balthier, his voice heavy and thick, full of a fire that seemed to smolder and leak from his lips like sightless smoke.

Penelo chuckled nervously; Basch stepped back to observe both the princess and the pirate, while Fran, who had returned at the same time as Balthier, having gone to fetch a refined supply of weapons, narrowed her scarlet eyes and peered at Balthier's back as if she could tunnel in through his brain and sift through his thoughts.

“You're both nuts,” said Vaan, once more breaking the tense silence – and for the moment, Basch was disheartened to realize that he would have to agree.