Commence the most awkward sort-of-date

[keephimtalking]

Who: Aranea and Lantar!
Where: Movie Theater!
When: Night!
What: Valentines event! So movie date? Sort of date?
Warnings: Nada! Will add if something comes up.

[Closed to Aranea]


When glaring suspiciously at the envelope doesn’t resolve his problems or get him out of the cold, Lantar eventually gives in and peels it off of his door before quickly stepping inside.

He sets the groceries down and tugs his scarf off, turning the little piece of paper over in his hands before slicing through the top of it with his thumb claw, turning the contents out on the dinner table. The movie ticket garners an even more suspicious glare. The note gets another one for a good measure because it’s not like he has a shortage of glaring power going on here.

Now, Valentines is not a Thing that Turians celebrated. He doesn’t even remember anything about it from the his memories of growing up in this weirdass town. The closest he’d come to hearing about it was from Montague once, as a… joke? No. He remembers an awkward attempt at helping Ripper woo Weaver with a ‘Valentine’s’ letter. The Asari ended up setting in on fire along with a bit of the man’s hair for a good measure.

Which doesn’t really bode well for any of this.

And yet, somehow, he finds himself at the local theater a bit after his shift ends, a few minutes before the allotted time. He’d let Malia try closing for the night and kept his cell on vibrate, just in case anything went awry.

Just using up the free ticket, Lantar tells himself. It’d be a waste otherwise.

There’s an awkward moment where the man kind of just- hovers ominously near the entrance, fidgeting with his scarf. He can feel the staff watching him and heat crawls up his neck. Eventually, the pressure gets too much and he just sidles over to go peer at the movie posters instead.

At least Aranea isn’t going to have a hard time spotting her, er, ‘date’.

Comments

[unweaving]

For all the stopping and starting through his explanation, she's nodding along, genuinely interested in what he's saying. And she might give herself away a little when he says another planet and her eyes twinkle -- bingo, he is an alien, Prompto's going to flip when she tells him -- but all she says is:

"That makes sense. I don't mean to be an asshole about it, it's just where I'm from we haven't had... what do they call it in sci-fi? First Contact?"

And that trips her right the fuck up, because she's from here. Right? But there's something pushing there, a memory of somewhere colder that she can't quite grasp. She shakes her head like that'll clear it, and shrugs at him.

"...I have no idea why I said that."

[keephimtalking]

"... But... I've always been..."

Here.

... Right?

Lantar's expression closes off, mandibles tense against his jaw. The suspicion creeps back into his eyes, but it's not directed at Aranea this time.

Of course they'd had First Contact. If they hadn't then he wouldn't be here. There's no way, it's not possible for humans to not know about Turians when he was standing right in the middle of one of their freezing, backwater human towns.

Right?

He closes his eyes and slowly, quietly inhales. All the staring, all the people asking him what he was, the nurses, the doctors, the other patients-

"I don't think they're going to allow drinks in the theater," Lantar remarks very, very quietly. "If that's what you're asking."

[unweaving]

It's deeply unsettling to see her own discomfort mirrored on a face so different from her own, but in a weird way it's also strangely comforting. She's never seen anyone like him, but he'd shown no signs of feeling out of place in anything other than an awkward social way until she'd fucked up. Selfish, but seeing a reaction at least tells her she's not crazy.

"Right," she says, almost wishing she was the kind of person who's good at comforting people. It's only a token effort, but: "I probably shouldn't be drinking anyway. Got in an accident, hit my head pretty hard."

That feels like a shitty sort of a lie, though, so she shrugs and inclines her head to where that creepy notice is posted. The same notice that's in all the businesses around here -- hers included.

"Well, no popcorn, no booze. Hope it's a good movie."

[keephimtalking]

His eyes slide towards the sign and he stares at it for a long while before sighing and turning away, running his hand over his head wrap and fringe.

"Oh," he murmurs absently, thumbing the scarred-over exit hole in the side of his temple, hidden under the fabric. "Didn't know you were supposed to avoid booze after a head injury..."

A little awkward that, considering his job.

Idly tapping his mandibles against his jaw, Lantar drops his hand down to his hip and nods in agreement with her, glad for the topic shift. This movie night was going downhill before it'd even started and he's not entirely sure how to salvage it. He's not entirely sure a movie's going to distract either of them from the sudden, howling existential crisis, but at this point, he's willing to give it a good try.

"We've got, uh, ten minutes?" A quick glance at the scheduling confirms it. "We can go grab some seats."

Not that there's a lot of competition for seats at this hour. He's seen all of two people milling around the theater outside of the stray, bored looking staff.

[unweaving]

"Oh, it's not a medical thing. It's an I'm already making an ass of myself, better not push it thing."

She's not going to pretend she doesn't like to put people off-balance intentionally from time to time, but shit. It's gotta be hard enough walking around here looking like that without her putting her foot in it on top of things. It's her version of an apology; that and dropping the subject, nodding easily when he suggests finding seats. And that's about the extent of her manners, which she demonstrates by striking off and clambering into a middle seat towards the back rather than asking his preference.

"So tell me: what's a valentine, and why's there a whole day for it?"

[keephimtalking]

There's a beat and then Lantar puffs a very soft laugh as he drifts after her into the theater proper.

Alright. Weird apology accepted.

"Far as I can tell, it's some kind of Terran couple's... thing," he shrugs, folding the armrests up before sliding into the seat next to her, careful to make sure his arm didn't end up in her face. "Don't really know anything about it otherwise. Not really a thing I grew up with."

Both in his memories of Pines and his memories of Omega.

The leg room was pretty terrible: Lantar ends up half curled up with knees pressed against the backrest in front of him hard enough to make the chair creak. Whelp.

[unweaving]

She watches him folding himself up into the seat with something bordering on admiration; it looks like it's taking a lot of admiration to cram himself in there. There's a half-moment where she considers suggesting moving to the front, but nobody likes sitting in the front, right?

"Just stick your feet on the seat in front. There's like three other people in here.

If it's a couples thing, why is someone sending out invitations to people who don't know each other? Seems kinda creepy. Plus, I'm married, which seems like it would have been a kick in the pants if you didn't look like there were about seven places you'd rather be."

[keephimtalking]

Lantar grumbles and refuses to stretch out his legs.

... It lasts about ten seconds before being followed by another bout of heavier grumbling and then more creaking as he stretches his feet out over the backrests, careful not to shred anything with his spurs. He doesn't look any less awkward, but at least he's comfortable.

"You're asking the wrong person about that," the man sighs quietly, resting his fringe against the top edge of his cowl, watching the trailers roll. "I'm just and alien trying to make sure the ticket weren't going to get wasted."

It IS creepy though and especially with her admission of being married. Last he checked, humans weren't so culturally receptive to polyamory and the people who organized this clearly know that Valentines was a Terran couple's day. So what the hell?