Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-14 19:51:00 |
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She knew she could find him here. The barriers were clear-cut against anyone mingling in the staging area, but someone of her caliber could easily slip past: Ofelia strode right through the checkpoint as if she belonged here, her oratory greasing the security guard and gaining her admittance to where machinists and racers tinkered with their hoverbikes. They checked on the engines, the fuel, the magicite that powered the flying mechanism, and looked over the route that would bring the racers tearing through Emillion to the delight of the roaring crowd. Ofelia had gil riding on the outcome (of course), and so found herself glancing at the competitors as she passed them, taking them in and gauging their measure. There was only one she truly wanted to talk to, however, and so she eventually drew up by Cian Wilde’s bike. “Came by to wish you luck,” she said wryly. Cian looked up at her and offered a lopsided smile and a raised hand in greeting. “You just missed someone trying to cut my wires,” he said. “Guess that means I need all the luck I can get today. I’ll take yours, since you’re offering.” “Hm. If there’s a handy pair of dice around, I suppose I could blow on them.” That earned a dry chuckle and he said, “Anything I could say here would be questionable. In the interest of good sportsmanship, let’s skip it this go around. I’ll just say thanks.” He patted his handlebars absently; despite the run-in with the supposed machinist, the bike was in good shape. “You going to flatter me and tell me your money’s on me?” he asked. “Since you’re wishing me luck and all.” She’d known what sort of jokes her comment might have elicited, and Ofelia couldn’t help but smile. They had reached an easier camaraderie since Sagittarius; innuendo now bounced off her, no longer resulting in the blush or ruffle of her composure. Banishing that tension had gone a great way towards making Ofelia’s words looser around him, less stiff and rigid. “I’m not one for insubstantial flattery, but—” a pause, a consideration, “well, yes. My money’s on you. So mind you don’t crash and burn. I’m rather attached to my money.” It was the sensible thing to do, as far as Fee was concerned. No emotional sentiment: mere statistical analysis. He was a good racer. He was a reasonable bet. “I’m glad to know your money’s the only concern,” he told her. “I’ll try not to die; wouldn’t want to impact your wallet like that. Anyway,” he said, thinking back to the previous summer despite himself --crashing and burning seemed mild words when weighed against the memory -- “one near-death crash is enough for me. I’ll try to stay on course for more reasons than your financial well-being, I guess. Besides,” he added with a crooked smile, “my money’s on me, too.” “Smart,” Fee said, with a flash of teeth. But then she softened, her dark eyes drifting over Cian’s shoulder and to the other riders around them, the rows of hoverbikes ready and waiting for the start of the race. “Besides. Admittedly, I might be somewhat put out if you veered off course like that. Who else keeps me on my toes?” She didn’t meet his eye; saying it at all was a gamble enough. But he only maintained his relaxed expression (he, too, found more comfort in her presence now that everything had been aired; putting all cards on the table sometimes led to good things, and he could only wish other areas of his life would follow suit), saying, “I’ll take that as the confession of undying love it’s meant. Now we know I can’t crash.” And then, because joking was all well and good, but he recognized the trust implicit in that statement -- the admission that she would miss something if he weren’t there -- he said, “Don’t worry, today’s not my day to die. I’ll be around to keep you on your toes awhile yet -- and hopefully help fill your pockets this one time.” That was all the reassurance she needed (or wanted), and Ofelia was finally able to look back at him as the conversation shifted back to more stable ground: their usual banter and delicately treading that line between friendship and trust. “Good,” she said, and patted the handlebars reassuringly, as one might for a saddled chocobo. A stand-in for the man himself, a substitute for touching Cian’s arm. For luck. They were such a superstitious lot. But before she could add anything else, there was a renewed burst of activity in the staging ground, mechanics and roadies scurrying about and shooing spare people off the track. She was one of them, so with nothing more but a honeyed apology to the guard motioning at her to leave, Ofelia disappeared back into the audience, to watch the rest of the race itself. |