Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, |
It would feel just a bit more like the Bear when a particular gambler strode through the door. He didn’t own this place, but Cian didn’t particularly care one way or another about food except as a source of fuel. Why dump money into something so temporary? Dives, therefore, were his go-to establishments most of the time (unless in the process of charming a woman). His workday had ended in the Bazaar today, and he’d felt the bite of hunger -- accordingly, here he was. He recognized the blonde at the bar right away, of course. Not that he’d come in here with any mind towards company, but hers he almost never minded. Besides, he’d heard some news about her (among the piles of useless rumors brought to him by his network) and couldn’t resist the urge to hear it from the chocobo’s mouth, as the saying went. He slid onto the stool next to hers, offered her a smirk. “Hey, blondie. Looking cheery as usual.” Damia made a scoffing sound into her drink as she sipped from it, setting the glass back down with a clink against the bar top. “This is my happy face,” she informed him, a brief smirk passing over her lips. Cian was always welcome company until he wasn’t, but nothing had yet happened to sully her thoughts of him, so he was one of the few she didn’t protest to taking up the next stool over. “Come here to sample the exquisite drinks or the—” she motioned around “—quaint locale?” “Neither. The locale’s a little clean for my taste,” he deadpanned, “but it’ll do for food.” Whatever the kitchen was serving up today would do for him, which was what he told the bartender in terse words when the man circled back to them. Once he was gone, Cian crossed his arms on the bar, giving Damia and her drink an amused look. “You can drink for the both of us. Trouble in paradise?” he asked, almost innocently. “Sorry I missed sending out a wedding present.” Really, the opportunity to rib her about this was far too tempting to ignore, and he’d know soon enough if it was true (the source had been reliable). “Should I call you Mrs. Baines now?” he continued. “Pain in my ass, but for you, blondie, I can try to remember it.” For as much as Damia prided herself for being able to keep a straight face, even when the conversation wasn’t going her way, this particular topic had her pausing, something like surprise flashing in her eyes. He knew? No, of course he knew— there were some things that couldn’t stay secret, not when Miles was using the front door. It was a temporary arrangement, Miles taking up space in her dingy, empty apartment (he could scarcely resist reminding her he needed to pay her better for it), but now what had to be weeks later, she was wondering if it would become permanent. Her eyebrows rose in challenge. “You can call me ‘blondie’, I like that so much better,” she suggested. “Gotta admit,” he said as his food came, placed before him by the silent bartender, “I’m surprised. Never pegged you for the settling type.” Her words had more or less confirmed the story, though he hadn’t really gotten the full details of why Miles Baines was shacking up with the corsair, though he had to assume the arrangement was temporary. Then again, who the hell knew? Sometimes, he had to wonder about the woman. He knew her just well enough to suspect that the callous exterior (the surface of which he had only barely scraped) might hide something underneath. “Unless you’re playing the long con to make off with his nonexistent fortune, in which case, power to you.” |