Work Text:
The dim amber glow of the bar’s overhead lights cast long shadows across the polished oak counter, illuminating the condensation sliding down Ishmael’s glass of whiskey. She swirled the ice lazily, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the low hum of chatter around her.
Rodion, the bartender, smirked as she polished a glass with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Long day at the office?”
Ishmael, An executive at Ahab Maritime Holding , just let out a dry chuckle and rolled her shoulders. “Same as always…” The crisp lines of her blazer shifted with the motion as she stretched. “Just need to unwind before heading home…”
Rodion's grin widened, feline and knowing. “Well, you’re in luck. Someone bought you a drink~” She said in her sing-song voice.
Ishmael’s fingers stilled around her glass. Her dark eyes flickering up . “Again?” She exhaled through her nose, irritation prickling under her skin. “Tell them I'm not interested… The drink however…”
Rodion jerked her chin to the corner of the bar before Ishmael could finish.
There, half hidden in the shadows, sat Don Quixote.
Ishmael recognized her from work, the company's head of PR. The usually boisterous, self proclaimed knight of the office was now hunched over like a startled rabbit, her face burning scarlet.
An untouched drink was on the table in front of her, its only purpose seeming to be something for her to fidget with. Her wide eyes darted toward Ishmael before turning away so fast Ishmael thought her neck would have snapped once Ishmael met her gaze.
It was odd, sure Don had the tendency to quiet whenever Ishmael was in the room but Ishmael had just chalked that up to her no nonsense attitude. But then here was Don Quixote, the woman who, in meetings, spoke with theatrical grandeur about “justice”, yet now looked like she might combust if Ishmael so much as blinked at her.
Rodion chuckled. “She came in early, y'know. Ordered you a drink before you even came in.”
Ishmael hummed, interested. “And she thought buying me a drink would… what? Win my favoritism in my division?”
Rodion only chuckled more. “Yeah right, you see how she's blushing. You know full well why she bought you that drink .”
Ishmael snorted. Then, without breaking eye contact with Don who had just risked another glance and immediately stiffed like a deer in headlights- she lifted the gifted drink in a silent toast.
Don’s breath visibly hitched.
Oh, this was going to be fun .
Ishmael stood, smoothing her blazer with deliberate slowness, and began walking toward Don’s booth.
The knight of cubicles looked ready to bolt.
_______
Don’s quixote’s fingers clenched around her glass, her knuckles quickly whitening as Ishmael’s shadow fell over the table. The moment the executive slid into the seat across from her, Don let out a tiny, involuntarily squeak, her body tensing like a spring.
Ishmael rested her chin on her palm, her smirk deepening as she watched Don’s throat bob with a nervous gulp. The poor woman was practically glowing with embarrassment, her eyes darting anywhere but Ishmael.
“So,” Ishmael drawled, swirling the gifting drink between her fingers. “You bought me this?”
Don’s shoulders jerked up to her ears. “A-Ah! Yes! That is–well, I–I merely thought–”
Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat with a valiant(if futile) attempt at composure.
“A n–noble soul such as thee, toils so diligently for the good of the c–company! It is only right that–that one honors such efforts with a token of… of…”
“Of?”
Don shook her head frantically, trying to regain her train of thought. “T–tis a gesture of–of respect! C-courtesy!!”
“So you’re saying you bought me a drink… as a professional courtesy?”
Don’s breath hitched. “Yes! Precisely! N-nothing more!”
Ishmael took a slow sip, watching Don over the rim of her glass. The whiskey burned smooth of her tongue but the sight of Don squirming was more intoxicating.
“Hmm.” She set the glass down with a clink. “Funny. Because Rodion told me you’ve been staring ever since I walked in.”
Don deflated like a balloon.
“And,” Ishmael continued, leaning in just an inch closer. “I don't recall professional courtesies making people blush this hard.”
Don’s hands flew to her cheeks, as if she could physically smother the heat there. “T-that is–! The lighting in here is–very warm! And I–I may have had a bit much–!”
Ishmael laughed, making Don shudder. “Relax, Quixote.” She reached out, tapping one of Don’s shaking fingers with her own. “I’m just teasing.”
Don’s breath escaped in a shaky exhale. Then, hesitantly, she peeked out from in between her hands. “...You are?”
“Mhm.” Ishmael’s smirk softened, just a fraction, “But if you did have another reason for the drink… I wouldn’t mind hearing it~”
Don was silent for a moment, kicking her feet and shaking as if she was keeping something in. Don then swallowed hard, clenching her fists before–
“I-I THINK YOU’RE VERY COOL!”
Silence.
Then Ishmael blinked. “...Cool?”
Don’s soul left her body. “I-I MEAN–! BRAVE! NOBLE! LIKE A–A FEARLESS CAPTAIN FROM THE STORIES! AND YOUR HAIR IS VERY PRETTY AND I-” She clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
Ishmael just stared.
Don sunk into her seat like she wanted it to swallow her whole.
“You’re really terrible at this.” She laughed, a bright sound that set Don’s heart into freefall.
“But “cool”, huh?
“Y-yes,” Don mumbled, staring at her lap. “Very… very cool.”
“So, what now?” You just wanted to buy me a drink and stare from across the room?” Ishmael’s voice was low and teasing.
Don’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “N-no! That is–!” She fumbled, then suddenly took a deep breath and straightened as if mustering the last dregs of her courage.
“M-my lady! If–if it pleases you.. would you… accompany me elsewhere?”
Ishmael raised her eyebrows.
Don, still spiraling, barreled on. “Somewhere more–more private ? Just the two of us?”
Ishmael’s lips parted softly.
She hadn’t expected that. Somewhere else with her this late at night after drinks? Ishmael knew what Don was really asking.
Maybe this shorty had some fire in her after all.
“My, how forward… Cutting right to chase huh? And this early?” She set her drink down slowly.
“...Early? It's nearly midnigh–”
Ishmael leaned in, close enough for Don to smell the whiskey on her breath.
“Normally I'd have to drink way more than one drink in order to accept that kind of preposition but… You’ve been interesting tonight Quixote.”
Don blinked. “E–Eh? I–I merely thought–”
“Your place or mine is usually a third-date question, Quixote.” Ishmael mused, tilting her head. “But I’m not complaining.”
Don was very much confused. She had planned on taking Ishmael to a cafe or something or the sort. Why was Ishmael talking about their places?
Before she could voice her confusion Ishmael had already stood. “My place is closer anyway~” She turned tail and nodded in Rodya’s direction, who had been watching far too eagerly.
Don, ever the hopeless romantic, scrambled after her.
__________________________________________________________________
The elevator ride up to Ishmael;s high rise apartment was silent, apart from the frantic drumming of Don Quixote’s heartbeat in her ears. The glass walls of the lift offered a dizzying view of the city lights stretching below them, but Don barely noticed.
Her entire focus, though she tried her best not to make it obvious, was stil on Ishmael.
This is happening!! Don thought, palms sweating. A true, romantic evening with Ishmael!
The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing Ishmael’s sleek, modern apartment. All dark wood and steel accents, and floor to ceiling windows that framed the skyline like a painting. Don gasped, stepping inside with wide-eyed wonder.
“By the stars…!” She breathed, spinning in place once she reached the center of the room. “Thy dwelling is grand as a palace…”
Ishmael smirked, tossing her keys on a marble counter. “Glad you like it.”
Then without ceremony, Ishmael reached for the buttons of her blazer.
Don didn’t realize what was happening at first, not until Ishmael shrugged the jacket, letting it slide down her arms before dropping it carelessly over the back of a chair. Then, her fingers went to her dress shirt.
One button. Two
Don finally turned as she heard the sound of moving fabric, and nearly jumped at what she saw.
“G-guh?!?” She squeaked, her voice cracking.
Ishmael paused, halfway through unbuttoning her dress shirt and glanced up at Don. “Hm?”
Don was frozen, yet her face burned so hot she was certain she’d leave scorch marks on the marble. Her wide eyes darted from Ishmael’s exposed collarbone to the black lace bra, barely concealed beneath the half-open shirt, then immediately snapped up to the ceiling, as if divine intervention might save her.
“I–! Thou—! This is–!”
“...Are you okay?” Ishmael finally finished unbuttoning her dress shirt and slid it off, leaving her in her pants and black lace bra.
“I–I–I–ISHMAEL???”
Ishmael moved closer, blood threatened to erupt from Don’s nose. “What are they really that good?”
Don’s face was now the color of a ripe tomato, and her legs quivered as she neared a state of complete panic. “WHA–WHAT ART THOU DOING??”
“...What do you think I'm doing?”
Ishmael blinked. Then it hit her.
“Don… What did you think we were coming here for?”
“A-a noble evening of courtly affection.. P–perhaps dinner by the moonlight…”
Ishmael burst out laughing.
“God you are adorable !” Ishmael wiped a tear from her eye. “When someone asks you to go somewhere private at a bar of all places it's rarely for courting .”
Don’s soul escaped her body.
“T-then… Thou assumed I intended to…”
“Hook up? Yeah.” Ishmael smirked. “I mean I was surprised, didn’t think you had it in you.”
Don made an extended noise like a boiling tea kettle.
Ishmael watched her flounder, equal parts entertained and, though she would never admit it, endeared. She sighed, sliding her shirt back on before approaching the downcast Don.
Don whimpered as Ishmael ruffled her hair, causing Ishmael to chuckle. “God, you’re cute… C'mon I'll order some takeout.”
Don was still sniffling but leaned into the touch. “Dost thou… truly mean it?”
“Mhm… Tell you what, we can watch a movie too. That fixer documentary you always rave about.”
Don’s mortification paused. “T-The one about the color fixers?”
Ishmael snorted. “Of course.”
Don’s embarrassment was forgotten in an instant.
Around twenty minutes later, the both of them sat on Ishmael’s couch, watching flashy CGI on the screen and chowing down on their takeout. Don was mid-sentence, dissecting the strengths and merits of each color fixer as she continued on her rant about which was the strongest when she finally froze.
“...Oh.” Her hands dropped to her lap, fidgeting. “I–I apologise, my lady! I hath been rambling most unbecomingly! Dost thou… wish for silence?”
Ishmael who had been lazily swirling her wine in between sips, looked up. The knight's face was suddenly flushed again, her eyes wide with self-awareness. The documentary’s dramatic reenactments of color battles played on in the background, casting flickering shadows over Don’s nervous expression.
A smirk tugged at Ishmael's lips.
“Nah. Keep going.” She took another sip. “It's cute.”
“C–C–CUTE???” Don squeaked, face immediately crimson.
Ishmael chuckled into her drink. “Yeah. You’re all fired up, like a puppy barking at a mailman.”
Don spluttered at this comparison, torn between indignation and sheer giddy delight. “I am no puppy! I am a knight! ”
“Sure. Sure.” Ishmael waved a hand dismissively. “Anyways keep going, you were saying something about that vermillion guy’s cross?”
Don hesitated, searching Ishmael’s face for any sign of annoyance. But the ginger just leaned back against the couch, watching her back with an expression that was, dare she say it, fond?
Encouraged(though now blushing furiously), Don took a deep breath and launched back into her rant with renewed vigor.
“AHA! THEN ALLOW ME TO EXPOUND UPON THE VERMILLION CROSS’S TRUE MIGHT! FOR SEE HIS CROSS HIS NOT MERELY FOR THE OFFENSIVE! IT IS ALSO–”
Ishmael sipped her beer, listening.
To her own surprise, she was enjoying this.
Not just the absurdity of Don’s voice and over the top delivery, though that was entertaining, but the sheer passion in her voice. The way her hands gestured wildly, the way she eyes sparkled when she got particularly excited. It was… refreshing.
Most people in Ishmael’s world were calculated. Polished. Every word was a transaction, every smile a negotiation. But Don was genuine.
It was nice.
And so they sat there, Ishmael listening to Don’s yapping with more intent than she brought to most meetings. Maybe another date like this wouldn’t be the worst.