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“C’moooooon, it won't be that bad. We’ll just have a few drinks and come back home. Fifteen minutes tops, promise!”
Wanderer should have known better than to listen to your pleas, you had a track record of getting the both of you into messes that way. But for some archons forsaken reason he can never quite keep his resolve when you tug on his haori sleeve and look down at him with those big, wet eyes and trembling rosy lips. It feels almost wrong to deny you then, like kicking a pitiful, foolish kitten.
That is how he had ended up here, crammed in a rowdy bar on the outskirts of the city.
He’s been leaning against the sticky surface of the bar for the last half hour–much longer than the fifteen minutes you had assured him–nursing a glass of warm water. He doesn’t generally partake in alcohol, hating the feeling of not being in control of himself.
The woman next to him is on her fourth glass of some awful-looking fruity alcohol concoction. She has been wailing on and on about her ex-lover to anyone in earshot, her words becoming more and more slurred and nonsensical with each gulp.
Everyone else had begun avoiding her within the first ten minutes, a feat Wanderer envies as the drunk woman has apparently deemed him the best audience for her laments seeing as is stuck at this counter for the foreseeable future while you stand several meters away, yapping away happily with strangers.
“I hate him, I…I hope he burns in hell with his new b-bitch,” the woman shouts, swaying in her seat.
She clumsily grabs at her half-emoty drink, bringing it to her lips for a sip before she suddenly pauses. Tears well up in her bloodshot eyes. “But I miss him shooo much, waaaaaah!”
Wanderer doesn’t even spare the woman a glance, eyes locked on how you smile and wave a greeting at a man who comes up towards you.
The man is about the same height as you, possibly only because of the new shoes you had been so excited to wear tonight.
“Kitten heels,” you had informed Wanderer as you slipped them on at the front door, “they’re cuter than flats but don’t make me super tall like regular heels do!”
Wanderer did not know anything about female fashion, nor did he care, but he had overheard your complaints about not being able to wear cute shoes more than once. Something about not wanting to look “too tall”—frankly, he doesn’t get it at all.
You are already tall, why does it matter if you add a few more inches? It’s a stupid thing to worry about.
“S’that yer girlfriend?”
Wanderer jumps, head whipping around to find the drunk woman staring directly at him.
His girlfriend? Who–Wanderer tenses when he hears the distinct sound of your laughter behind him, loud even in the noisy bar.
“Absolutely not,” Wanderer snaps, face scrunched up in disgust at the very thought.
“She’s my…” Party leader is the most accurate term but a hassle to explain to non-adventurers. Boss might be the second most accurate description but that prompts more questions than answers. “...friend,” he settles on. He cringes imagining how excited you would be to hear him refer to you with such a term.
The woman smiles, a smug type of smile like she knows something he doesn’t.
“Y’remind me of my Anand, he–hick–he used to look at me like that,” she muses wistfully..
Clearly this woman is even more incapacitated than he had thought if she is able to make such awful comparisons like this. Wanderer is opening his mouth, prepared to put this nosy drunkard in her place when her expression suddenly shifts. She is looking at something over his shoulder, brows scrunched together.
“Heyyy, I thi–hick–ink your girl needs some h-elp. She looks…”
Wanderer’s brows furrow, taking a moment to decipher the slurred words before they register.
His shoulders stiffen and he turns quickly, eyes flying to find you in the crowd.
Within the few moments he had looked away you had moved, now standing in a more secluded corner with the man from earlier. He is hovering next to you, a respectful distance away but still close enough to speak to you in low tones Wanderer can’t hear.
But the look on your face… your usually wide grin twisted into something awkward, forced, as your eyes refuse to look up from the glass you hold tightly in your hands.
You’re uncomfortable.
Wanderer is instantly up, stalking towards you with purpose.
“—are quite rare in Sumeru. Where did you say you were from again?”
“Uhm, I didn’t, but I’m from–”
“Hey, let me buy you a drink.”
The man is grabbing your half-full cocktail despite your protests, setting it on the counter and loudly calling the bartender to bring a few shots of tequila.
Wanderer scoffs. You hate tequila.
His noise alerts you of his presence and the relief on your expression is so obvious Wanderer is tempted to laugh.
You greet him, introducing him as your “best friend” to the man who immediately starts sizing Wanderer up.
Standing right in front of him, Wanderer notes the man is pretty short. Still taller than Wanderer but less than the average Sumerian male height. Wanderer doesn’t bother with pleasantries but it doesn’t matter, the man–Raphael, he introduces himself as–deems him not a threat judging by the smug look on his face as he says his hello.
That’s fine, Wanderer thinks, he isn’t involved with you in the way this man is clearly trying to be. And judging by the way he talks over you, Raphael doesn’t have a chance with you–or any reasonable woman for that matter–anyway. Wanderer resigns himself to playing chaperone and making sure this asshole doesn’t do anything weird until you inevitably admit you’re ready to go home. He can manage that.
The shots arrive and Raphael hands you yours, oblivious to the way you eye it with apprehension.
“Sorry, little guy,” Raphael says to Wanderer, gesturing with his glass, “Only ordered two. I’ll cover you next round.”
You frown at that, looking annoyed at the small jab but Wanderer waves it off. He couldn’t care less, he’s heard and said much worse. Instead, Wanderer is eying the handwritten drink menu posted above the bar, wondering if he should order you a plain water or that disgustingly sweet strawberry juice you like to help wash down the taste of the tequila.
“Y’know, for a tall girl you’re actually pretty cute.”
Raphael leans in, grinning like he fully expects his "compliment" to woo you.
You try to shift away from him, chuckling awkwardly and attempting to change the subject but Raphael is hardly listening. His sweaty hand finds its way to your bare shoulder, pulling you in close enough to feel his breath against your face, the stench of tequila singing your nostrils. His dark eyes glance down at your parted lips and you clam up, not sure what’s about to happen–
And then he’s suddenly ripped away from you.
Wanderer stands between the two of you, facing Raphael with a look of distaste as if he were something dirty and insignificant.
“Alright, that’s enough. Don’t touch women without consent, asshole.”
Raphael scoffs at that, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest like an angry animal as he slews a string of insults ranging from slurs about Wanderer’s apparent Inazuman appearance to disses about his short stature, as if Raphael himself was that much taller.
Archons, Wanderer thinks, the guy is insecure on top of the misogyny. He’s starting to pity you for the men you seem to attract.
Wanderer has no interest in wasting the energy arguing back. The bartender comes over to place the glass of juice he had ordered on the counter, eyeing Raphael’s red, shouting face with vague concern. Wanderer calmly picks up the glass, thinking about how once the two of you leave he is going to rub in your face how bad of an idea going to the bar on a Friday night was, just like he told you. He turns, intending to pass you the glass but you are no longer behind him.
Ever the peacemaker, you’ve moved forward, hands in a placating position with a shaky smile on your face as you say something in an attempt to calm the yelling man down. You’re saying something stupid about not saying “mean words” to your “best friend” when Raphael’s furious eyes turn to you.
Wanderer tenses, instinctively knowing something bad is about to happen.
Surely the bastard isn’t foolish enough to try to hit you, right? Wanderer trusts his reflexes to protect you in time but just the thought makes his chest burn and his jaw clenches in anger. He takes a step forward in preparation.
“—and you,” Raphael says instead, eying you up and down hurriedly as if actively searching for something to criticize. Unexpectedly, his gaze lands on your feet.
“Why the fuck are you wearing high heels? You’re already eight feet tall, give it a rest!”
Compared to everything else the man has said, the insult–if it could even be called that–was so anti-climatic. Those kitten heels or whatever you had called them were far from “high heels,” further illustrating Raphael’s apparent insecurity. Wanderer huffs in amusement, relaxing. What a loser, Wanderer takes a step over to you, opening his mouth to repeat the words aloud and escort the two of you out of here but he pauses when he catches the look on your face.
Lips trembling, eyes wide with the threat of tears…
Wanderer sighs, already feeling foolish as he sets the glass down and begins stretching the muscles of his right arm.
Raphael is smirking with self-satisfaction at his own words when Wanderer steps up to him. He raises a brow and Wanderer cocks his fist back.
BAM
The whole bar falls into silence as Raphael goes down, knocked out cold. Everyone stares between his stiff body and Wanderer who casually shakes out his slowly reddening hand. The bartender looks conflicted on if she should kick him out or be thankful that the guy on the ground is no longer shouting. From the corner of his eye, Wanderer can see the drunken woman from before grinning at him widely, giving him two thumbs up.
Wanderer ignores all of it, picking up the juice again and handing it to you before ushering you both out of the door.
Outside, Wanderer sighs with relief at the cool night breeze. He can finally breathe in fresh air without the stench of stale alcohol and sweat. To his right, you’re quietly nursing your drink with both hands.
Neither of you mention how the glass is technically stolen from the bar.
He has no doubts you’ll try to return it tomorrow morning.
The two of you walk in silence, something which is rare with you, and Wanderer takes advantage of it by mentally planning his day for tomorrow. You’ll almost certainly be hungover which means he should probably make soup. He’s pretty sure he has some leftover carrots and potatoes. Maybe he should visit the market for some fresh meat, Lesser Lord Kusanali had said something about boar being in season.
“I knew I shouldn’t have bought these shoes,” you mumble, breaking his train of thought. Your voice is uncharacteristically quiet and when he glances over to see you, you're all but sniffling. Wanderer huffs, arms crossing.
“You like them. Don’t let some dumbass decide what you can and can’t wear. That’s stupid.”
You glance at him with a grateful smile but it doesn’t reach your eyes. How irritating.
“He was right though, tall girls shouldn’t wear heels.”
Wanderer can’t even begin to comprehend why the fuck anyone would care about that. Sure, he had his own fair share of height insecurity before, one of many hangups in his upbringing, but then he grew the fuck up, mentally and emotionally. He’s confident in his abilities regardless of his insufficient height. Hell, he’s kicked Childe’s beanpole ass more than once in the past. He smirks to himself remembering the look on the redhead’s face the first time he’d knocked him on his ass.
Besides, being tall was the good end of the spectrum. Everyone wants to be tall, and wearing shoes that make you taller just makes it better.
He tells you as much and you pout at him.
“It’s different for girls. Girls are supposed to be defenseless and cute, y’know. So that the guys will want to protect them.”
Wanderer has seen the way you swing a claymore on the battlefield, defenseless is one of the last words he’d ever use to describe you but he holds back from saying that out loud less he somehow manages to upset you even more.
“That’s stupid,” he repeats, because it is, “you’re–” the word that almost slips out makes him freeze. Cute is also not a word he would use to describe anyone but–his mind conjures up flashes of memories. Memories of how you pout at him when you want him to agree to something ridiculous, how you greet him every day with a smile so wide he thinks it’ll split your face, how you whine his name and tell him to “be nice” after he’s insulted someone. He wouldn’t call it cute but–
You’re gazing down at him expectantly, shit-eating grin growing as you catch on to what he had almost said.
“You’re average,” he remedies, “there is no connection between height and looks.”
Your grin falls into a pout and you whine at him, but you’re laughing in between and your eyes are sparkling with amusement. You’re back to your usual self.
“Aww, you don’t think I’m cute, Wanderer?”
One of the few times you address him properly and it’s for this…
You bump into him playfully, the remnants of neon pink in your cup sloshing and almost splattering him. He scowls, pushing you away with a sneer.
“I think you’re annoying.”
You cackle, head thrown back and nearly tripping over your own two feet like a drunken fool. He catches you with minimal effort, saving you from face-planting on cobblestone but you’re oblivious to any danger, already rambling about something else he has no interest in. Looking at you now, your eyes shining and hands gesturing wildly as you yap a mile a minute, Wanderer quietly concedes maybe sometimes you look a little…cute.
Like a kitten. A foolish, pitiful kitten who needs his protection or else it ends up going home with an idiot at a bar who is oblivious to when a kitten already has an owner and is way out of the idiot’s league—
Or whatever.