2020-02-16 - Plastic-Sword Piracy

Sometimes the world doesn't cooperate with dinner plans, and this time it's done it in the form of teenage sisters having teenage sister crises that require tending to. Well, one teenage sister. But that was enough to call in a rain check for that Sunday, and then there was her conference, and crises of friends, and it's only now that all these things and school and work and possibly the stars have aligned to allow a proper rescheduling of the intended dinner.

And thus: Rhys's boat. It lives moored in the bay, and is, in fact, a proper boat, rather than the more floating-house variety of houseboat with shingles and siding one often finds. An older-looking boat, but seemingly in pretty good condition and looking as though just maybe one could randomly decide to head off to Australia or at least Mexico in it at any time, if one really wanted to. The railed gangplank that connects it to the dock is a sturdy-looking thing, though, giving the counter-impression of not intending to go anywhere any time soon, and at present, it appears to host a trail of gold-foiled chocolate coins at intermittent spacing, from just before it begins on dry land across over the lower aft deck and directly to the cabin door.

The temptation to abscond to Mexico while this grey, dreary winter persists is very, very high. Sparrow's even got a bag packed. Sure, it's because she means to stay over tonight, but she could probably stretch those supplies for a few days, a couple weeks, however long that trip might take. First, she has another journey to undertake, collecting each of the faux gold coins as she crosses the gangplank and rounds toward the cabin door. All of which are promptly pocketed to hide any and all evidence of her theft. Except for, well, the bulging pocket of her coat. Pay no mind to that please.

She really does look the part of proper first mate, if one ignores the heavy black coat, the backpack slung over her shoulders and the canvas grocery bag held in her left hand. There's the jaunty tricorn pirate hat that was almost certainly part of someone's Halloween costume at some point, the black boots and the black-and-white striped stockings which disappear beneath the lowest hem of her coat, suggesting something short worn below. Her make-up's fairly muted aside from those rich red lips which command attention, entirely meant to inspire unsavory thoughts. If the captain hasn't opened the door by the time she arrives, she knocks, standing straight, reporting for duty as first mate.

The door does not open itself as she approaches; in fact, it takes a moment after the knocking before it does. It does it quickly then, however, and she finds herself being menaced with a very obviously plastic cutlass by a very obviously Rhys, who looks slightly less the part of proper captain. He has the sword, of course, and a tricorne hat of his own -- also of likely halloween costume provenance, though he's found one with gold trim and a feather, just to fancy it up a bit -- and a black apron, just short of knee-length, with a skull in a chef's hat above a crossed carving-knife and -fork. And nothing else visible, at least from the front.

"Avast!" he declares, taking her in with an up and down glance that pauses fleetingly on the lips (so they may well be working) before finding her eyes, "Be ye me first mate? Or be ye aimin' to plunder me booty?" That's as far as he gets before breaking into a grin, but it's probably as far as he was trying to go. There are, she might notice, more chocolate coins around, possibly still creating a trail.

The inside of the boat itself is perhaps surprisingly homey, in a fairly tidy kind of way. Wood floors, eggshell ceiling and walls, and what appears to be a lot of wooden built-ins. It's not a huge boat, so the interior is probably about the size of a small one-bedroom apartment, more or less, but it seems fairly well designed to be pleasant and not overly crowded.

"Come on in," he says, stepping aside and making a flamboyant 'right this way' sort of gesture with the sword, "I don't want to have to lie to people about how I got frostbite. Or where. But I like the hat on you."

Sparrow giggle-squeaks at the not-at-all intimidating sword pointed her way as soon as the door is opened, trying to look properly aghast while attempting to hold back laughter with inconsistent success. She straightens and reels that all in when asked if she's his first mate, ready to report for duty. But then he offers Plan B, and... well. "Plunderin' your booty," she confirms, casting a look down along that apron and all that it implies about what else he might be wearing. "Definitely here to plunder your booty. But." Eyes up, pirate! "Probably also your first mate." Cuz when isn't she a both sorta girl?

Once inside, door closed, she's quick to set down her bag and shrug off her backpack, both left by the door for the moment, so that she can slip out of her coat and reveal the costume below, such as it is. In addition to the hat, boots and striped stockings already on display, the latter of which evidently end at mid-thigh, the whole of her Sexy First Mate get-up consists of a two-tone denim skirt with six buttons down the front, a loose-slung belt with a brightly colored plastic water pistol at one hip and a v-neck tee shirt tied off just below her tits. Definitely not standard issue, but it hits enough of the marks that it might pass muster.

"I like the apron on you," she chirps right back, unsubtly tipping to the side to peek at just how much frostbite he might risk getting where. "And! I brought supplies." She doesn't have to turn and bend at the waist like that to pick up the canvas bag. It's an intentional choice, a show, the rough denim hem rising above the pinch of her thigh highs where they bite into her milky skin. A shameless invitation, to be sure. "Where do you want it?"

Rhys gives her a narrow-eyed look at the plunderin' intentions and bothening, the sword still 'threatening' as he exaggeratedly considers her, then nods once. "I'll allow it," he declares, attempting to look stern rather than pleased by her reactions and doing a fair-to-middlin' job. Just not a good enough one to hide it.

He takes a moment to watch the coat-removal, giving the ensemble underneath a thorough once-over and looking wholly approving of it before he steps closer to take the coat from her, opening a cupboard to hang it among a few other jackets and such. It gives her a pretty good angle for her unsubtle apron-peeking, which reveals that he'd be in danger of quite a lot of frostbite, and everywhere. Well, possibly not under the hat. Turning back in time to watch the bending, he tilts his head to the side in at least as unsubtle a manner as hers to observe this. "...right here sounds good." And so, apparently, does smacking her lightly on the ass with the flat of the sword, which makes a an electronic sort of clanging noise in punctuation. "You look perfect."

He steps in closer, leaning over to try to look into the bag from right up behind her, instead of the probably more effective but less fun option of stepping around her. "What supplies did you bring? Kitchen, probably." He doesn't really have to point it out; it's definitely what one might call 'open plan' in here, and the kitchen is clearly down a short flight of stairs and to the immediate right. It's very small, but serviceable, and definitely a good deal newer than the boat itself. It would, granted, probably be easier to take things there if he didn't slide an arm around her waist to suggest she stay right here, whether she's inclined to straighten back up or not. "Apron's not quite uniform as discussed, I know, but I haven't forgotten the last time I fried bacon naked yet. Plus, you know, adds that dashing air of mystery."

Sparrow might take a little bit longer admiring Rhys' fashion sense than is strictly necessary, but not quite so long that she gets caught checking out the booty she's promised to plunder, her turn-and-tempt sufficiently well-timed to imply innocence where voyeurism is concerned while indulging shamelessly in her own exhibitionism. A little squeak at the unnatural clang against her ass is accompanied by a quiet clattering of glass as a few of the mysterious items in her mysterious bag of mysterious--okay, sure, probably kitchen--supplies knock together when she starts, her hand around the neck of a bottle. Peeking past her shoulder, it's difficult to get a good look at the canvas bag's contents, in part because it's mostly the tops of bottles and jars and boxes, but greatly because the bottle of Highland Park 18 Year Scotch that she's drawing up obscures a good bit of the view. It's almost entirely full, only a couple drinks ever poured from it, the number of people who meet the qualifications for enjoying its contents undeniably few.

With a little wiggle of her rear against his hips and a tip of her head toward his, she assures, "This bag is mostly kitchen. Though. I'm pretty sure we can enjoy this--" She holds the bottle up for him to admire or take, at his preference. "--just about anywhere. Prolly even safe to share in full uniform." Which has her side-eyeing him. Without trying to stand, mind. "Am I overdressed, captain?"

"Fashion sense". Is that what we're calling it these days? Rhys grins broadly at the little squeak, entirely pleased by the momentary startlement. What more could one ask of a silly electronic plastic sword? Alas, his view of bag contents does leave much to be desired, but it's pretty well made up for by pressing up nice and warm against her -- and a little bit by the presentation of the scotch. "This bag?" he echoes, accepting the bottle since she seems to be offering it. "Do you have another one hidden somewhere?" There's not a lot of clothing to do the hiding, but he still tilts his head to the side and leans a little to scan her as best he can without actually, you know, moving away at all.

Lends itself well to considering that question of hers, as well. "No," he decides, "...which is to say, yeah, but fixing this sounds fun, therefore no. Maybe I'll sharpen my sword and slash those buttons right off your skirt." This is, of course, almost certainly impossible. Giving the back of her shoulder a light bite through the t-shirt is far more possible, however, as he demonstrates before straightening up just a bit, enough to give the bottle a proper looking-over. "You're right, though, this does look pretty enjoyable just about anywhere. But given the geas upon it," he offers the bottle back to her, "I feel you ought to make the determinations as to precisely when and where and in what degree of dishabille the mystic ceremony ought to be performed."

Sparrow doesn't mention the backpack sitting right over there which may well hold more than just a change of clothes. It's far more fun to tease, "Maybe you should look," and cock a hip toward his curiosity to tempt him into taking a peek beneath that denim. That little bit of friction between skirt and apron is purely coincidental. She gasps when he chomps at her shoulder, that shock surely exaggerated, answering the threat of such violent undressing. "Gonna have to make sure our cabin girl can sew," she notes as she straightens with him, not allowing a whole lot of distance to be gained. Even if their hats nudge against one another when she gets close enough.

One hand reaches back to edge past the apron, laying claim to the lower curve of his rear, while the other accepts the bottle back. "I mean." Even if her grin can't be seen, it's easily heard in her tone, caught in profile, the lift of her cheek, the dip of dark lashes. "If I'mma serve as master of ceremonies?" Her fingers squeeze where they hold, possible indication that she approves of this idea. "I'mma need you to grab that bag and take it downstairs. Then? I'll need two glasses so I can provide our initial pour. Something to sip on while I lead you through the first rite of the evening, getting everything cooked. Let you do all the work while I tell you how." There might be the barest suggestion of a question in there, echoed in the way one eyebrow arches inquisitively, but the idea of issuing instructions while watching Rhys cook certainly appeals to her.

"Maybe so," Rhys agrees, adjusting the angle of the arm around her and his grip on the sword enough to let fingertips find, sneak beneath, and then catch the hem of the skirt. "I mean, I do like a treasure hunt." They draw it up along her thigh slowly enough to qualify as intentionally teasing, though which of them's the real target of that is an open question. "...and definitely sew. Pirate leadership can't be worrying about every popped-off button."

Her other suggestions get a soft snort of a laugh, and he leans in to bite the point her neck curves to shoulder a bit more sharply. Having straightened makes it easier on the one hand, and much less so on the other, which has to come up quickly to save his hat from getting knocked entirely off by hers in the process. Her own is her own problem, apparently. "Someone once warned me," he says, "about setting dangerous precedents. And her penchant for mutinous usurpery. Still only one captain on this ship, lass, and the job's still taken." A much lighter kiss to the bitten spot, and he draws just far enough back that a tilt of the head prevents further hat issues for the moment. "I meant specifically the scotch portion of the proceedings. On the other hand..." which is still on a lazy hunt for any other hidden bags, "you are my guest. And I still reserve the right to say yes when I damn well feel like it."

He considers this over the duration of sliding his free hand down her hip and over to check whether the buttons on the skirt are decorative or actually unbutton. It's not much of a duration. "This comes off. This, too," he adds, hand sliding up to make a squeeze of his own over the shirt. "Stockings and belt can stay." Hat goes without saying. Of course hat. "Then I'll let you lead me properly through the first rite." He smiles, and it's her turn to get an inquisitive (and perhaps just slightly challenging) brow-arch. Do they have a deal?

"No popping off buttons until we've got a cabin girl," comes with a less-than-half-hearted swat at his hand. Even as she shifts her weight to lean into it, to assure that his fingers brush up against the edge of elastic that might mark another layer to be shed before cooking can commence. The nip at her neck earns a squeak from Sparrow, as much for the sudden rush of pain-tinged excitement as for the nudge to her hat which she has to quickly fix in place. Maybe at a slightly jaunty forward tilt. Might even be intentional, the way it lets her lean back a little when lips settle where teeth had been. "I do appreciate that you value the advice of your first mate," says the would-be usurper, mollified for the moment and willing to hear her captain out.

The buttons are certainly functional, though it might take a little effort to get them undone one-handed. Though there's a nod for the captain's first instruction, the second, complete with groping, gets a brief sputter of laughter that she's quick to reel in so she can listen to the rest. When Rhys is done, she doesn't answer his offer verbally. Instead, she bends forward to set the bottle of scotch back in the canvas bag... and press her rear against him a little more firmly for a couple of seconds. She takes her hat off before she straightens, though it's pretty easy to guess at why given how she pulls her shirt off over her head then tosses it over toward her backpack. The dark red bra follows, leaving her topless as fingers work over those fully functional buttons to loosen her skirt until that, too, can join the pile.

In the end, when she bends over to pick up her hat and get it resituated, she's left in her boots, stockings, belts and a pair of black-trimmed red panties, matching the bra tossed aside. Angling a coquettish look over her shoulder, she hooks a thumb under her undies and asks, "What about these, captain?"

"Not even a little popping off buttons? I've got crazy glue around here somewhere." There is, however, no actual attempt made to denude the clothing, just the wearer. Rhys is quite happy to encourage both the silent agreement and the pressing against him that comes along with it, even if keeping that arm around her is not extremely useful as far as the actual disrobing portion goes. He moves it just enough to get out of the way, at least, which is essentially how he handles all moving just at the moment. After all, if he moved much away, it'd be much more difficult to run his hand over some of the revealed skin, and really, if you can't get a little fresh with your first mate, what's even the point, right?

One of the point belongs to the plastic sword, of course, even if it is a decidedly dull one that's no danger whatever when he tucks it into the space made by her thumb beneath the elastic. "Might be I should just slice 'em off," he mock-pirates at her, as if the 'blade' were actually capable of destroying anything but the likelihood of being taken as a serious threat. Since it isn't, it just slides down a little further against the fabric, which could at least theoretically help with the instruction, "Those too, 'less you're planning to stand near the stove. I'm imagining you more lounged over in the mess, though." By which he means the little dining area, but a small pirate ship has to make do on these things.

"Certainly ups the urgency for a seamstress." Sparrow looks very much as if she might be of a mind to let Rhys try to make that sword do as swords do, one dark brow cocking higher in pointed challenge. She makes no further move to either aid or interfere with that plastic weapon's imperfect work. Not until he's dragged that one side down far enough that the elastic pops from her thumb and pins the dull blade against her hip. Even then, it's a second longer, a wider flash of her grin, before she catches both sides of those panties and does as instructed. Bending at the waist leaves her ass up while she works the garment past her boots, while trying to keep her hat in place. It's a slow process, several seconds spent on shameless display before those undies are tossed onto the pile.

When she straightens, unless otherwise impeded, she rounds on her captain, making use of that teensy little bit of space she's got to about face, to bring all her soft curves crushed up against his apron, hats clashing carelessly again as she goes in for a kiss. It might be more comfortable if the water pistol at her hip weren't jamming into his, if she weren't slightly off-balance from that quick turn in close confines, but her hold is steady and her kiss demanding, so very firm at first, until it melts toward something a bit more sensual and sweet. She draws back only far enough for her lips to move independently so that she might articulate, "Lead the way, captain," while maintaining the temptation of staying right here a little while longer.

"We might need to start writing a want ad. I mean, we can't just assume any bonny wench we shanghai is gonna be any good with a needle, and waiting for her to learn sounds annoying when we could be comandeering that time for other purposes. Not to mention the lack of buttons in the meantime, since she'd need something to learn on..." Rhys leans juuuust far enough back to properly enjoy that display with his eyes for a moment, sliding slowly into another grin. "Then again, if it's the right buttons, I just might be able to cope." A light slap to her ass, there... you know, in case he's being just too subtle today.

He's shifted that bit closer again and let his arm move to where it can easily slip back around her as she straightens, loose enough in the movement that it's not dislodged when she suddenly turns, despite a flicker of surprise at the speed of the action. Sword-hand comes up to prevent de-hatting, and he meets that kiss enthusiastically, the other arm tightening around her, water-gun be damned. Comfort's overrated. ...sometimes. He's a breath or so behind her on shifting from insistent to more lingering, but once he has he seems inclined to continue doing exactly that. Takes that temptation, leaning in as far as she's drawn back to reclaim that kiss and keep it going just a bit longer.

"Mm," he murmurs when he does pull away, releasing her and taking a step back; the plastic sword has a plastic sheath, currently set on the apron string, and the step's just far enough to slide it away there. Dramatically. Why even wear a sword if you don't get to draw and sheathe it with panache? "After me, Ms. Jones," he replies, with a smaller but no less playful smile, and steps past her to pick up the bag. It does not require bending quite that far and could have been done rather more quickly, but apparently what's good for the goose is good for the gander, regardless whether it's meant as revenge or reward. And once he has it, he leads the way the not particularly impressive distance across the room, down the few stairs, and into the-- well, galley/mess area, as he might call it right now.

"I'll get right on that," might be more convincing if Sparrow weren't obviously uninterested in getting right on much of anything except her dashing captain at the moment. The search for cute cabin girls with mad seamstressing skills is gonna have to wait. Even if that means a few buttons might get lost in the meantime. She opens her mouth to say something more on the subject but what comes out is a gasped giggle for the unexpected smack. "You keep pushing my buttons," might be a more impressive threat if it weren't spoken in a purr, if it didn't sound like the omitted retaliation might be entirely enjoyable, especially for the punished party.

As proven by the subsequent kiss. When the affection she initiated is answered in kind, she leans right on in, letting bare curves crush against his apron, soft skin brushing past the edges of the fabric for just a few exquisite seconds. One might question her capability as a first mate for how readily she's disarmed, her smile as dopey as the day is long when Rhys draws back. It only warms for the dramatic sheathing of that threatening weapon. She starts to reach right for it when he bends over, when her first inclination is, oddly, not just to steal a grope, but to smack that bottom with the plastic sword, but even as slow as that bend-and-lift might be, it's not quite long enough for her to manage that move. Instead, she just brushes her fingers along the curve of one cheek, lightly enough that her touch might tickle. And then waits. And watches. Yeah, she's gonna get a really good gander, taking her time in following to take full advantage of the captain's current uniform. "If all of your orders are this easy to follow, I'mma love serving under you, Mr. Evans. Captain. Sir."

It is decidedly possible that Rhys bears little to no objection to Sparrow's priorities re: things to get right on at this time. "Better or worse than slashing 'em right off?" he murmurs, stealing a bit of her purr. Either way, the crime might well be worth the potential retaliation, or possibly the potential retaliation might well be worth the crime.

That crushing-against absolutely does not change his mind on any portion of this, though it may have something to do with the reluctance to immediately move on with their plans. How important is food, really, right? Probably not a shock that for the first moment or so after the kiss properly breaks, he mirrors that smile right back before getting it under control for the sake of plastic-sword-drama. The brush of her fingers has his grin returning, and spreading further as he feels her eyes on him as he goes. Surely there is not the slightest bit of intentional self-presentation in that stride. "I always endeavour to make serving under me a pleasant and satisfying experience, Ms. Jones. Ideally for all involved."

The bag's set on the counter in the galley, and in deference to how little counter there actually is, fairly swiftly unpacked. The scotch is set specifically aside; the rest is simply arranged so as to take up as little space as possible, or popped into the fridge if that seems to be where it belongs. "Glasses," he says, pointing to one of the cupboards. "Once you've poured our drinks, I'll need to to arrange yourself decoratively over there," the pointing moves on to the padded booth across the little aisle, "and then the Leading of the First Rite can commence."

Sparrow could get used to a life of piracy if this is what it entails. Even if her patience is a bit strained. Would it really be so terrible if she just pounced her captain? Does it matter which hunger she feeds? Her tongue slips over her lips when she steps down that final stair, eyes set on Rhys' rear rather than--oh. What? Glasses. She blinks and looks up, rerouting her thoughts toward more practical functioning to take note of the indicated cabinet. Her murmured, "Right," seems mostly for herself, followed by a prompt correction of, "Aye-aye," as she sets to motion collecting glasses and pouring scotch. Just a couple fingers of that too-expensive drink, meant for sipping, for slow enjoyment. For unrushed moments. For patience. She can do patience.

The first mate edges in needlessly close as she sets her captain's drink down amid the expanding assortment of ingredients. It's not difficult to guess at the nature of the evening's rite and recipe while unpacking the bag's contents: white miso, rice wine vinegar, fish sauce, sesame oil, sriracha, yellow tobiko and scallops. Unmistakably asian and appropriately alliterative. Near as her lips are, brushing against his shoulder so very lightly, she probably ought to say something a little sexier than, "Do you have a blender?" but she's trying to focus on her responsibilities as ritemaster and not how much she'd maybe rather just sink her teeth into him.

A brief kiss punctuates the inquiry before she withdraws to abide his instruction, moving to her padded perch to recline comfortably and enjoy the show. Err. Issue instructions. Both! Definitely both. Her free hand fusses with the plastic pistol at her hip so that it's not jabbing in uncomfortably once she has her legs crossed at the knees. There might even be a second or three spent assuring that she's arranged in aesthetically appealing position, tits given a little jiggle-shimmy, bangs given a little fluff with her fingers where they peek out past her hat. And then it's all eyes on Rhys and his sword and his apron and all the parts that apron isn't covering. "You'll wanna start by melting some butter. Half a cup."

And they haven't even pillaged a single ship yet! Rhys glances sidelong to her at the murmur, breaking into another quick grin that seems to suggest note being taken of the distraction, and it being filed as Wholly Pleasing. Possibly incentive for his own patience, which is also not infinite. He pauses to watch the pouring, probably mostly because he's enjoying looking at her but arranged so as to suggest a solemn regard for the ritual being begun.

He might be inclined to argue over whether the closeness is 'needless' or not; certainly he isn't complaining. The ingredients get an interested once-over. "You did also bring the delivery menus, right?" Another grin, and he turns his head to lightly nuzzle her hair as her lips brush his shoulder. Hey, it brings her to about the right height for it! "I do in fact have a blender," he replies, "Ice, too. And olives. I am equipped for all standard alcoholic emergencies." He turns to watch her as she makes good on the rest of her part of this agreement, all fluffs and jiggles blatantly appreciated as he leans idly against the counter.

It's not until she's properly settled and starting in on the 'rite' that he straightens again, and turns with a flourish to regard the ingredients on his counter again. "Half a cup," he echoes, grabbing a stick and looking pleased when the markings on it seem to suggest it is half a cup. Handy. He peels it, sets it and a knife on the chopping board, then leans down to open a lower cabinet and pull out a thick glass bowl. It's possible he takes a little longer than necessary doing that. It's definite he glances back over his shoulder at her after a moment, and wiggles his ass at her before he stands to chop and pop the results in the little microwave to melt.

Sparrow doesn't answer that question about delivery menus, but there's nothing left in the bag once the ingredients are all set out, no Plan B hiding at the bottom just in case everything goes sideways. It's entirely up to Rhys whether he wants to read her silent smile as confidence in their combined capabilities or threat of mischief and mayhem.

The first mate reclines comfortably as her captain follows that initial instruction, contentedly watching as he works and wiggles while she sips at her scotch. It's a fantastic scotch, really. Palatable even for those who don't like a whole lot of peat and smoke, leading instead with notes of sharp citrus and lush fruit before sinking into those heavier themes. It'll pair well with the scallops. If they ever get that far. Which might be questionable given the distracted delay in her continued guidance once the butter's in the microwave, brown-eyed attention angled a little lower than it ought to be if she's at all focused on the food. Which she is. Really!

"Sauce first," marks the blender's purpose tonight. Margaritas and martinis will have to wait. She guides him through measuring out the white miso, rice wine vinegar, fish sauce, sesame oil and sriracha, through peeling and chopping the ginger, through mixing it all together. When he adds the butter, it doesn't take long for the sauce to become glossy, a good sign that it's done. One component completed. From there, it's drying and seasoning the scallops then searing them in oil over high heat until they're brown on both sides. And hopefully not overcooked. It's hard for her to gauge doneness from her distant perch, that one technical detail requiring a chef's judgment left entirely to her captain. So, too, does she leave the plating to him when it's all done, though it should ideally be three scallops per plate, a generous drizzle of the miso glaze and a little dollop of tobiko. Easy, right?

Certainly, it's easy for Sparrow. All she has to do is issue orders and watch. To call her comfortable with her responsibilities for the evening would be a gross understatement.

Well, in a true delivery-menu pinch, they've got the internet, right? Right. Rhys seems actually confident enough about messing with what's in his kitchen now that he's actually doing it; it's not, it might be noted, a particularly complicated kitchen. No room for real complication. And probably no idea what to do with it if there were. But blender, microwave, stove-top: these are things he can operate passably well.

Or at least today, it turns out, really quite well. Maybe it's her stellar instructions; maybe he has a sixth sense for just when a scallop is properly cooked. Either way, the several appreciative sips his scotch gets as he works clearly don't get in the way. Nor does making a Solemn (Hammy) Production of the 'ritual', with all the pomp and circumstance he can muster. And a certain amount of exaggeratedly coquettish movement in general, 'cause if he's going to be putting on a show, he's gonna be putting on a show.

The plating is perhaps not perfect -- each plate gets half the scallops however many there were, and he attempts a dramatic spiral of the sauce over the plate, dropping some tobiko onto it where he thinks it looks stylish rather than actually on the scallops themselves -- but the elements are there, and he turns dramatically to bear the finished product to the table. It would work better if he weren't halfway balancing one of the plates on his glass, but needs must when you don't want to go the whole few feet back across to get it. The other plate, though, is swooped with some elegance onto the table in front of her. "Et voila."

The don't you dare think about taking your eyes off of me (cuz you might miss the best part) show of it all may well be the best reason to date a Leo. Almost certainly in Sparrow's top five reasons for dating this Leo in particular, anyway. Possibly top three, if the occasional hitch in her sipping, delay in her instruction or squirm of her hips while she watches Rhys deftly and dramatically comply with her every command is any indication. As if those subtle hints might somehow say more than her more overt murmurs of appreciation, delighted little sounds occasionally giving way to a, "Very nice," or, "Just like that," drawn out just enough to suggest she's not solely praising his culinary skill. There might even be a a pretty pink flush creeping from cheeks to chest by the time the plates are presented. Her attention readily follows his movement as the food is set in front of her, the creative plating taken in before she renders her judgment of, "Magnifique."

She cheats in the few seconds it takes Rhys to properly join her at the table--with or without apron, at his discretion--and gingerly dips a finger down to capture a couple beads of tobiko and, incidentally, a little glaze on her fingertip. She's not quite quick enough that she won't subsequently be caught sticking that digit past her lips to sample that blend of sweet heat and salty citrus, but she really doesn't look the least little bit worried about that. Even if it does delay the reclamation of her scotch, the glass lifted in the chef's direction. "To my captain," she begins with a brightness that doesn't diminish the underlying solemnity of the toast, of the conclusion of this sacred rite, "who knows damned well what to do with my body, whether we're talking alliterative appetizers or the main course. Who stimulates my brain with wordplay and conversation and karaoke. Who goes on soul-satisfying adventures with me and reads me pilfered poetry. The three tenets met." For all that it looks final, what with the way she nods and tips her glass toward his for clinking, it sounds like there should be one last line, like a couplet left incomplete, but there's nothing more from her lips as she watches him warmly, waiting.

Rhys has been accused before of being incorrigible; whether that's accurate or not, he's certainly encouragable, and Sparrow's reactions are nothing if not encouraging. It's a vicious or possibly virtuous circle, depending how one feels about the performance. They're definitely a positive in his book, and once he's set his cargo down and she gives her verdict, he gives her a deeply sweeping bow in return, drawing his sword in order to make the movement even sweepier. He resheathes it as he settles into a seat, only then removing the apron, while his lower half is hidden beneath the table. If this seems like a form of teasing, it probably is, particularly given the way the apron itself gets tossed aside afterward. He'll hang that up later.

It takes too long for him to successfully snag her hand and steal the taste off her finger before she can, but it does match up well for letting him pick up his own scotch about when she does, and lift it in return. The grin widens as she goes through the toast, and he tilts his glass in to meet hers, the pair making a suitable little clink. "Hear hear," he replies, "...and to my first mate, perfectly-garbed queen of the ritual, as well." It might be wordier were it not for that impression she gives of perhaps being not-quite-done, and for the same reason there's just a touch of delay in drinking, long enough to ensure he's following her lead on that front. Wouldn't do to spoil the timing. Everyone knows a good rite relies on that sort of thing.

"May our pillaging prove profoundly, uh..." Sparrow's brow furrows as her smile skews sideways, marking a brief bit of bafflement she's quick to conquer. "Profitable?" Well, an attempt was made, anyway. The glass is nearly to her lips by the time, "Pleasurable!" finally clicks. Surely, Rhys is to blame for being so damned distracting. All cleverly half-hidden like that. Surely, he's also to blame if her toes should stray beneath the table to do a little bit of exploring while she makes an earnest attempt at enjoying the perfectly prepared scallops. And, of course, the scotch. Which, really, pairs rather nicely with the meal, notes of citrus, smoke and salt complementing similar flavors within the seafood, drawing out the sweetness in the scallops.

It's a shame that they barely get a couple bites into those rather small servings before plates and tumblers are all abandoned in pursuit of booty, one seat abandoned to double up on the other as the first mate lays claim to her captain's lap. Weapons are eventually surrendered, but not until after the plastic sheath of the plastic sword has left a shallow scrape against Sparrow's knee, until after her toy pistol has pressed bruises into hips, until long after all appropriate hats have fallen to the floor of their own accord.

The scallops will hold for a few hours, right? If not, there's always delivery.