[Limbus Company] Dinner (10/12) (Ishmael, Dante)

Dante’s head and hands hurt.

The metallic clockwork that composes him is ticking out of sync because of how much he’s extended himself tonight. What he thought would be an easy gesture of compassion to his co-workers has turned against him, and with the way his heart is erratically beating, he’s starting to see that he was a fool first and foremost.

“…Manager.”

He sees Ishmael’s hair before the woman herself, who respectfully inclines her head before closing the door behind her. She has discarded her uniform for the evening, instead adorning herself with the outfit he had first met her in – a thick and padded overcoat. He knew that she felt most comfortable in that outfit, so he wouldn’t comment on it.

“Ishmael. Would you t-take a seat?” Dante’s words hitch for a millisecond, and he feels like hammering his head into the corner of the table to take back the display of weakness. The woman heeds his words, however, and politely observes him with those green eyes of hers.

“You look unwell. When’s the last time you slept?” She casually probes, tracing out patterns on the table with her long fingers.

“I haven’t slept since we entered District 4.” He admits, knowing damn well that the ginger is one of three people he can confide in on this bus. “But that’s a separate matter. What would you like to eat tonight?”

“Salmon. May I assist you?”

“No, you may not.” Dante rises from the table and ghosts over to the kitchen, reaching into the freezer to pull out yet another slab of meat. He had gotten the go-ahead from Iori to do this, but he’d be hearing about the cost later for certain. “How often did you eat fish on the ship?”

Ishmael tilts her head before biting back the barest hint of a laugh.

“Almost every day. It’s the easiest thing to acquire, even with that rotten ocean.” She idly scratches at her arm as her eyes drift to the ceiling. “Of course, some catches are harder to find than others, but salmon seemed to be in abundance, despite the climate. I was the one in charge of securing dinner for the crew most days.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re as strong as you are?” Dante idly remarks as he begins to bake the salmon, not even bothering to hide the way he accelerates the oven as he starts to throw together a butter sauce. Garlic and capers would do for her – she’s got a tooth for garlic, surprisingly.

Her lips quirk up in a smile, before she hides it behind her hands.

“Heathcliff is much stronger than me. In fact, many people within this bus are.”

She also had a habit of downplaying herself. Maybe it’s because he’s in pain, or maybe because he’s sick of it – he responds just this once.

“And yet your mental acumen is higher than most of them.” He pulls the salmon out and begins to drizzle the sauce over the steaming meat. “There’s a reason I was told I could trust your judgement. Upon seeing it for myself, I can confirm that they underestimated you – you’ve become a vital part of this business, just like the rest of them.”

Ishmael blinked before letting out a small sigh, moving her arms so that only her eyes were visible. He could spot just a bit of red peeking out from her ears, though.

Dante took the opportunity to deposit the dish in front of her, alongside a mug filled with a quickly cobbled together grog. She no more than lays her eyes on it before she snatches the glass and downs it, immediately washing it down with a bite of fish. A satisfied sigh comes from the woman.

“…now this takes me back.” She admits, moving her hair out of her face. “I can’t help but wonder how things would have went would we have had a crew like ours.”

Dante felt like he was treading on thin ice, all of a sudden. She was sensitive about what happened on the ocean – he had only heard the perpetrator’s name once.

“I’d probably be at a disadvantage.” Dante points at the top of his head, referencing the eternally burning flame. “Water and I don’t mesh well.”

Maybe he’d made the drink too strong, because that gets a stifled giggle out of the girl.

“Maybe Outis would be a better captain, then.”

“Probably.”

Silence reigns over the room.

“…have you found any leads?” Her voice is small, all of a sudden.

“I’m working on it, Ishmael. I promise that you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good.” She grips down on the glass, and all of a sudden it feels like she could break it with how white her knuckles are. “I will have Ahab’s head.”

“That you will, Ishmael.” For a second, the ticking that accompanies his speech increases, and Dante seems much more formidable than his tired body should.

She weakly raises her glass to the claim.