Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Hello, Goodnight ❯ Seductively Interesting Things ( Chapter 7 )

Note to self. Aya is not impressed by expensive restaurants.

 

Actually, Aya is apparently not impressed by anything expensive, saving health care. I am in fact learning that frivolity rather pisses him off.

 

Or maybe his bad mood is actually being generated by how noticeably underdressed he is for this place. His sweater does kind of stand out.

 

But that's not my fault.

 

For the record, I'm underdressed too. He should be grateful!

 

Although, of course, he didn't know that I was going to take him somewhere fancy, and I did. I'm underdressed on purpose. And when I say `on purpose,' I mean that in the very most deliberate sense. It took me the entire afternoon to decide on my outfit.

 

Hey, don't get the wrong idea there. I just had to make sure I didn't look gay.

 

…Which was way more difficult than I expected; I never really noticed before, but apparently skanky club clothes just don't go all that far towards establishing one's masculinity. In fact, I really hate to admit it, but I probably did bring some of this upon myself by walking around in one too many crop tops (hey, I can't help it if I look good in them.) Maybe just a little. I might need to go shopping.

 

Luckily I had the fashion foresight to own a cowboy shirt. Oh yeah. Nothing is manlier than cowboys. If only Sparkles could see me now. She'd stand totally corrected. I look awesome.

 

…Although probably a little out of place in a high-end Italian restaurant.

 

Not that I care or anything. Priorities, you know.

 

Aya, however, is seriously failing to notice how cool I look. He's spent almost the entire time with his face buried in the menu so he won't have to look at me. Or maybe he's just genuinely fascinated by prosciutto. You never know.

 

I force him to look up by handing him a glass of overpriced imported wine. He glares at it before gingerly accepting; holding it in a suspicious, tentative way that rather implies that he doesn't trust me not to have drugged it.

 

Yeah right, like I'd need to.

 

“Soooo,” I say, grasping at the first topic I can think of to break the silence, “seen any good movies lately?”

 

This line never fails to spur animated discussion out of my female companions. Never mind that we're rarely in actual agreement over what constitutes a `good' movie.

 

“No,” says Aya, once again rubbing in my face his obvious lack of feminine qualities. Or, you know…personality.

 

“Me neither,” I lie. “But I want to see that one they keep advertising every five minutes on TV. You know, the one about the time-traveling space aliens.”

 

Aya gives me a look that very clearly questions my taste for having interest.

 

“I mean, it looks stupid,” I back-track in attempt to salvage my cultural credibility. “Totally. But I like the lead actress. She's super hot.”

 

“Is she now,” he responds with indifference, staring off at a potted plant in the corner near the kitchen.

 

“Oh yes,” I nod in affirmation. “Smokin'. I once slept with a girl that kinda looked like her, too.”

 

Aya slowly drags his attention off of the plant and back onto me. Although by `me' what I really mean is the embroidery on my lapel. Apparently that's more fascinating than my face.

 

Well. What can I say, my shirt is awesome.

 

“Congratulations,” he mutters.

 

“Have you ever slept with anyone who looked like a celebrity?” I ask conversationally.

 

“No.”

 

Shocker.

 

I manage to suppress the urge to follow up with “Have you ever slept with anyone?” I suspect that might prove a bit of a mood killer there. Not that I can't guess the answer, anyway. Instead I say, “You should try it some time.”

 

His amethyst eyes narrow dangerously. The predictable “Hn,” has an extra edge of disapproval to it. Which I ignore, completely.

 

“Sometimes I get mistaken for Kid Rock,” I announce with a suggestive wink. I trust him not to be inquisitive enough to wrangle out the truth that this has only occurred with very, very drunk people. Very, very drunk people languishing in the sketchiest depths of the tourist district, if you're gonna get nit picky.

 

Instead of taking the bait, Aya goes, “Who?”

 

Damn.

 

“Nevermind,” I say, “I doubt he's your type.”

 

This earns me the sharp arch of an eyebrow.

 

“My type,” he repeats, his eyes now quite solidly making contact. “Would you care to fill me in on exactly what you seem to anticipate my `type' to be?”

 

I bite my tongue before the word `boring' can escape.

 

I completely fail to come up with a more flattering adjective.

 

“Uh…” I say.

 

“No, seriously,” he continues, with what might be taken as a hint of humor in his voice (and might just as likely be my imagination,) “I'm interested. Fill me in on this.”

 

A minute ticks by as I wrack my brain for a genuine answer. None materialize.

 

“Quiet,” I say for lack of a better alternative.

 

“Hn,” he replies without betraying the slightest fragment of his opinion on my assessment, “how enlightening.”

 

I wait for him to correct my misinterpretation, but he keeps me hanging.

 

“Well?” I ask impatiently.

 

“Well what? He replies with maddening vagueness. He's enjoying this.

 

“You're not going to clue me in on the correct answer?”

 

“No.” He says, and is saved from further argument by the waiter's appearance with our dinners.

 

* * *

 

“Sooo….” I find myself repetitively struggling to ward off complete stagnation of the conversation, “How was your day?”

 

He looks up from his pasta and gives me a skeptical look, as if it where the first time I'd ever asked him that.

 

Hang on a minute, there's actually a chance that might be the case. Huh.

 

“You want to know about my day?” He asks incredulously. “Okay. I'll tell you about it.” He sits up a little straighter, and fixes me with a rather harsh expression that doesn't quite match the question he's answering. “I spent all morning in the hospital. Then I came back and got accosted by you.” If I thought his expression was harsh, it's nothing in comparison to the emphasis he's just put on the word `you.' “And then I got harassed by a mob of deranged school girls. All of whom reminded me of my sister. Except that they were far too irritating to actually have anything in common with her whatsoever.” He punctuates the end of his story by taking a particularly violent stab at an unfortunate piece of gnocchi. “And not half as cute, either.”

 

“Oh.” I'm not quite sure how I'm supposed to respond to that. Taking a fortifying gulp of my Chianti seems like a good place to start.

 

“So it wouldn't have been so bad if they where cuter.”

 

“No.” Aya snaps, a little too quickly, “On the contrary. Attractiveness in no way redeems an obnoxious personality. In fact it usually just makes it even more insufferable.”

 

It might be my imagination, but I think his scowl just now was directed at me and not the school girls.

 

“So you do go for the quiet type,” I persist.

 

“Hn,” he goes back to glaring at his pasta.

 

We chew in silence for a little bit. See? I can be quiet too.

 

The fact that I have no fucking clue what to say to him has nothing to do with it of course.

 

I catch myself just before I prove my social ineptitude with a third round of `so…' and opt to cover the awkwardness by topping off Aya's drink. He's only taken about three sips of it of course, but hey, maybe the guy just needs encouragement.

 

…Or maybe not. He shatters my illusion with the unsolicited announcement, “You know, the waiter ripped you off.”

 

I go, “Huh?”

 

“The wine,” he blandly points at the neck of the bottle in my hand. “That's not real Chianti. If it was actually from Chianti, there'd be a seal right there. Not what you ordered.”

 

I follow the line of his finger to stare intently at the bottle, in hopes of looking like I actually have a notion of what he's talking about.

 

I mean to cover by saying, “Damn, you're right.” But…. “How'd you know that?” is what unfortunately slips out.

 

Shoot.

 

I can't help it though. I don't exactly find the concept of Aya being more refined than me all that astonishing. But a world where Aya can surpass my alcoholic expertise is clearly a sign that something is dramatically out of alignment in the universe. It just ain't right.

 

“Used to be a waiter,” he shrugs. The `at a nicer place than this,' goes unspoken, but is still quite effectively conveyed.

 

His face falls pensive. “But you ought to know that. We had that mission. The one at the restaurant where….”

 

“I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue. Wanna see?” I panic.

 

Anything to avoid readdressing missions and the related topic of my shortcomings in their regard.

 

“That's disgusting.”

 

Aya's grimace slides back into intent contemplation. “We don't have any cherries.”

 

“Yes, exactly,” I nod enthusiastically. “I think after dinner drinks are a fantastic idea.”

 

I signal to the waiter before he has a chance to object, and we're rather swiftly presented with liberally adorned beverages.

 

Aya looks mildly appalled, although I ignore him in favor of going to work at my party trick.

 

…Which apparently I'm out of practice on. Either that or the produce industry has recently conspired to standardize shorter fruit stems. I'm gonna go with the latter there.

 

I can feel Aya's eyes on me as I shamefully wrestle with my inanimate opponent. However, my concentration is broken by an expressive sigh. I look up in time to catch Aya pop a cherry in his mouth. I stop, transfixed.

 

In a matter of seconds Aya has efficiently produced one very neatly knotted stem. Hot. Damn.

 

“What…the….” I gape.

 

“I only said it's disgusting,” there's a vague smugness to Aya's not-quite-blank gaze; “I never said I couldn't do it.”

 

Apparently.

 

“We've had a lot of missions in bars,” he adds. “You pick things up.”

 

There are so many inappropriate responses I could have countered that with. Unfortunately, my brain is still stuck on Oh. No. He. Didn't.

 

I…do not have an adequate verbal response to that.

 

“That's fucking hot.”

 

No, wait, I was wrong.

 

Aya shifts in his seat and goes back to staring at what must be the world's most interesting foliage.

 

“Do it again,” I egg him on.

 

“No,” He says, continuing to allocate his visual attention elsewhere, “We don't have any more. And I've barely started my drink.” He gives the topic of conversation a nod and a scowl. “Which I didn't even want.”

 

“That's easily remedied.” I make a point of quickly draining mine.

 

“What part of `I didn't want it' didn't you get?” He grumbles, but takes a swig of it anyway.

 

“The part where you started doing seductively interesting things with it,” I grin.

 

It might be my imagination but Aya looks slightly less pale than he did a few minutes ago. And his cocktail is rapidly disappearing.

 

He slams the empty highball down with a frown and wordlessly points at it. The waiter gets the hint and accommodates.

 

Now it's my turn to inquisitively raise an eyebrow.

 

“It's not because you wanted,” Aya clarifies. “It's a matter of principle because you're picking up the tab.” He crosses his arms definitely. “I hope you brought your credit card.”

 

“I brought two, actually,” I'm all too happy to inform him.

 

“Good,” he says, pulling the new cherry out of his efficiently replaced tumbler and glaring at it challengingly. “You said something about wanting to see space aliens, right?”

 

His question catches me entirely off-guard…although that might just be because my attention is currently being pretty much entirely monopolized by his cocktail garnish.

 

“Huh?” I stammer.

 

“Space aliens,” he repeats vaguely.

 

I do a quick back-inventory of our former conversation. Oh, right.

 

“Movie?” I question, puzzled that he would re-visit a topic that he had previously expressed vehement distaste for.

 

“I thought you'd never ask,” he moodily sighs around the remains of his maraschino.