Author's Notes: I don't have a lot to say here. I just really wanted to write this because 1) I wanted to give Isis a birthday gift, and 2) I wanted more fluff for my OTP.
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or its characters. I just write this stuff for fun.
TO BEAR AND CULTIVATE
"This is not a date."
He isn't bothered by her statement and takes a quick, quiet sip of tea as he admires her severe stare. She restrains it considerably, but he takes note of the flicker of her eyes, the tiny embers of indignation. He smiles to himself behind the porcelain rim. He loves her when she gets like this.
A little voice at the back of his head scolds him for the thought. He loves her always, but he can't help savoring those little moments where she drops the stoic front and reveals the fire beneath. It's exhilarating to witness.
He settles the cup on the table and chuckles lightly as he leans back in his chair, lifting his left foot and resting his ankle on his right knee.
"How is it not a date?" he asks.
It is a picturesque afternoon in Napa Valley with a clear, pastel blue sky padding the backdrop of the bright green vineyard reaching up and over the hills. They are sitting at a small round table on the patio of a quaint, secluded bistro. While the wine menu is readily available with ample variety, and he is pleased to see his own label among the selection, he opts for an English afternoon tea while she selects Golden Assam.
He knew well before he had made the reservation that the owner and chef is notoriously fixed in their practice ("I don't care who you are or how much you want to surprise your girlfriend. Om ali is not on the menu. I don't do improv here, Mr. Crawford."), but after Isis had excused herself to the restroom before their lunch arrived, he had the opportune chance to exercise a round of civilized negotiation, providing a handsome sum and sliding it across the table in an embossed envelope. Even before receiving the "gift" of the Millennium Eye, and well after it, he undoubtedly yields better results in person.
Though now, after beholding the fruits of his efforts and staring at the bowl in front of her, she is miffed.
"Because it isn't," she says sharply. "This is not a date."
"From where I sit and what I see, it most certainly is."
"No, it is not," she insists. Her glare deepens and his smile matches the passion.
"I have taken you to my favorite cafe in Heliopolis. I have shown you the botanical garden in Aswan. We have been to the Siwa Oasis. You know what a date is, Pegasus. This is not a date."
He adores the little wrinkle at her brow and the emblazoned emphasis on the last sentence, the intensity with which she speaks. He remembers a time when she was so distant, so guarded and rigid, restricting herself to the barest minimum of communication and contact—it was all she had known. At their first meeting in Egypt, he had mistaken her reserved attitude for some sort of vainglory, an inflated hubris gifted by her own ego and namesakes, but he realized later it had been fear.
She had been raised with the knowledge of all the dynasties and tribes that came before her, raised with the terror of what could have been lost, raised to endure and live with the dread of what would happen if it all fell apart before her eyes despite her strict adherence. Fear ruled her, and she had done what she could with what power she could control to keep it from consuming her.
But the fear is gone now, moved on and through long ago. All that is left is her, and she is stunning to behold.
She has always held herself with dignity and a magnanimous grace, but she is not cold or distant anymore. She allows herself to smile, allows herself to be more involved, approaching each new moment with an enthusiasm that delights him to see. Yet he supposes, after spoiling her so much, from numerous invitations to accompany him to private retreats along the Mediterranean and Pacific (he was surprised, and then promptly wasn't, to learn she was fond of beaches), he only worsened her committal to high standards. He knows Isis Ishtar is capable of many things; tolerating trite, uninspired things has never been one of them.
He smirks wryly at the thought. Or is he perhaps giving himself too much credit?
He has known her long enough that he knows when she is being serious—knows she is serious now, but as they are, and what the situation is, she isn't pleased to see the enamored, dreamy smile on his face that lets her know that he is not taking her observation seriously.
"If this," he gestures vaguely with a circling motion of his index finger, "is not a date, my dear, then what is it?"
"This," Isis punctuates the word with the thrust of a spoon at his person, forcing him to behold the dry, shriveled brown morsel resting in a generous dollop of fluffy crème and phyllo dough.
"Is sad."
END
Author's Notes: The title comes from the species name for the date palm, dactylifera, more or less meaning "I bear dates/fingers", because fresh dates look like plump, chubby fingers on the tree as opposed to the dehydrated things you find in a Sun-Maid package, and apparently makes Isis throw a hissy fit. Goodness, woman, the chef got everything else right. Stop being picky and eat your dessert.
Thank you for reading.