#their first mates are /showleft /showright at their captains and it's not working they don't see it their glasses are off

[sheepwithspecs]

March CarvRhos Ficlet: Blind Date

|| FFXIV || Rated G || (3/??) ||

Prompt List Here!

Today is technically day four, but I wanted to use this day to catch up and write the idea I had for day two.

Gerald and A’brohka found dead in Limsa Lominsa, cause unknown.

Never in her life has she felt so godsdamned foolish.

The table is beautiful, all things considered. White linen tablecloth, crystal wineglasses, a decanter of Lohmani red. Silver cloches cover the dishes, and a basket of freshly baked bread is seated to the right of an elegant floral centerpiece. Candles flicker in their sconces—beeswax, not tallow—and in the corner the orchestrion is playing a soft concerto. It’s the sort of luxury that she’d once had to convince herself she would hate, in those long-ago days when such things were so far out of reach as to belong in the realm of imagination.

If nothing else, the lavish setting makes her feel more confident in her decision to dress up for the occasion. After all, it wasn’t every day that she was propositioned for a blind date, courtesy of A’brohka. She’d been reluctant to accept at first, unwilling to even humor such a ridiculous request, but the other Sirens had managed to wear her down. The girls had been delighted to “assist” her with her wardrobe, treating their surly captain as though she were a child’s paper lady. They’d taken great pains in lining her eyes, softening her features and talking her into a dab of rouge on her cheekbones. She was even wearing jewelry to mark the occasion: a pair of ruby earrings, gifted by the previous captain on the day of her succession.

What a shame. Sighing inwardly, she glares at her so-called date from across the table. Carvallain returns the expression tenfold, mouth pursed in disapproval at his current circumstances. The only thing worse than seeing him at the table was his clear shock in seeing her upon entering the private dining room. She was accused of entrapment, he of libel; insults were hurled and fingers pointed on both sides.

Eventually they’d calmed down enough to work out the truth: they’d been double-crossed by a pair of traitorous first mates. Funnily enough, both Gerald and A’brohka had been suspiciously absent during the day’s preparations, with neither crew being able to pinpoint their exact whereabouts. Clearly the two had foreseen their captains’ anger and made good their escape.

“Damn that conspiring little—” Carvallain had bitten off his insult, jaw clenched and fingers tapping a furious rhythm on the table. He’d cleaned up as well, with neatly trimmed hair tucked behind his long ears and his silk shirt traded for a waistcoat of shimmering blue brocade. Despite her hatred of the man, the idea that he’d also wasted his time preparing for a date made her feel only marginally better.

Now they both found themselves stuck in limbo, unable to salvage the remains of the night and yet unwilling to leave. A damn shame, she repeats to herself, n’ a waste o’ good food. She grabs a piece of sourdough from the breadbasket, crunching down on its thick crust and chewing morosely. What am I even doing here? she wonders, staring blankly at the covered dishes. What did I possibly think would happen?

The answer is glaringly obvious, whether or not she wants to admit it. She would rather die than face that sort of embarrassment, even in introspection. I ain’t lonely, she argues with the sardonic little voice in her head, finishing off the sourdough and reaching blindly for another piece. I’m just….

The heat rises to her cheeks as she remembers the way A’brohka regaled them all with fanciful descriptions of the gentleman who’d all but begged on bended knee for a private audience with the Siren captain. Tall, handsome, fashionable, but clearly not afraid to get his hands dirty when the need arose. Piercing eyes and a lithe frame, a sailor’s body with a nobleman’s heart. A well-traveled man with a love of the sea. I’m such a fool; I should’ve known. Who else in Limsa would fit such a description? She wants to bury her face in her hands, crawl to the nearest ledge, and roll into the ocean. Perhaps the Navigator would show more mercy than her own thrice-damned crew.

She glances at him infrequently from beneath her painted lashes, wondering what stories the Krakens must have fed him in order for him to agree to this. Had they been forced to lie outright, or had they simply embellished the truth the same way as A’brohka? Deep down, she hopes it’s the latter. That something in the way they described her piqued his interest, at least enough to—

Foolish.

Once again she reaches for the basket, only to find her fingers brushing against something warm and solid and soft, but definitely not bread. Startled, she looks up in time to see him quickly choose a piece of rye, fingers clumsily grabbing for his napkin. Their eyes meet and it is he who looks away first, clearing his throat with an awkward cough.

“It would be a shame to let the meal to go to waste,” he states, directing his words to the wall sconce.

“My thoughts exactly.” She takes the cloche from her still-warm plate, breathing in the heavenly scent of minced garlic and herbs, tender meat and roasted popotoes in their skins.  

“Reservations at the Bismarck are hard to come by, after all, and there’s no real reason to give up the table now—that is, we might as well—it’s not as though you… what I mean to say is….” He lapses into uncomfortable silence, knotting the napkin in his long fingers. She stares at them, her own hands tingling with the thought of touching them again, this time on purpose.

Why did ye come? Four simple words, and yet for once she can’t bring herself to open her big mouth. Why do ye stay? Somehow, the lack of a proper answer would be far worse than the never-knowing. Besides, it’s easy enough to guess.

“Oi.” She waits to catch his eye again, offering a crooked smirk that’s more genuine than any look she’s given him so far tonight.

“Shut up n’ eat.”