pairing: tartaglia/reader
rating: general
summary: She has never seen him act like this before, and despite her growing curiosity, she has to admit that it’s still a little amusing to watch. Who knew that there’s another side to him entirely?
Or: that one time where Tartaglia gets drunk out of his mind, and Signora has to deal with the consequences.
notes: this is the first time i actually used the y/n function! i usually tried to avoid it because it breaks immersion, but alas. reader doesn’t exactly appear here, but is mentioned, hence the use of y/n.
some disclaimer: this was written prior to signora’s in game release, so her characterization may or may not be off.
From the corners of her eyes, Signora watches as the scene slowly unfolds before her, barely able to hide her growing confusion. Even from a distance, she could see everything a little too clearly: the way Tartaglia leans back against the counter, taking a tiny sip of his drink and then pausing to address whatever’s in front of him.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice is almost loud enough to echo in the silence of the whole bar. She could almost hear the smile on his lips, could almost hear the playful lilt in his words even when she couldn’t quite see his face, familiar as though it’s the only thing she’s ever known. “Tell me a little something about yourself.”
But silence is the only thing that greets his request, and yet Tartaglia seems to take it in stride, nodding his head absently every now and then, completely unaware of everything going on around him. Signora blinks a few times, feeling more surprised now at this point than confused. Is he drunk?
He’s never been this drunk around her, or around anybody she knows, and the sight of him acting a little more differently than usual is enough to make her curious. Still, she remains rooted in her spot, keeping her eyes trained on him as she watches, growing even more and more curious as the seconds pass by.
She’s never seen him this drunk before, has never seen him act like this before, and though she remains curious about the whole affair, she also can’t help but feel a little amused. Who knew that this man—who has always seemed so simple and so straightforward, different from the rest of them, from everyone else she knows—has a wildly different side to him when drunk?
But he remains unaware of her eyes on him, and continues to speak, to say something, the words spilling out of his lips in a slow, sweet drawl that nearly makes her wince. Wow. It’s a good thing she isn’t on the receiving end of this. She doesn’t think she could stand anymore of his poorly thought-out dialogues.
But her personal feelings aside, she still couldn’t help but feel intrigued. Who is he even talking to? And how come they haven’t left the bar running yet when Tartaglia never seems to run out of cheesy pick-up lines to say?
Curious, she slowly stands up from her seat, walking closer and closer—careful to keep her distance but still enough that she could see him even more clearly, and watch, expecting to find another person with him… and yet she only finds him completely alone, all by himself, still leaning casually against the counter, talking about nothing in particular to no one in particular.
She blinks a few times, suddenly confused, turning her head this way and that just to see if she really isn’t imagining all this. Maybe she’s just seeing things? That could explain it, considering that she’s been more exhausted than usual this week, especially with the sudden increase in her tasks. Or maybe it’s simply a prank, something that the young man has thought of in order to fool her. He’s always been fond of his own little jokes, even if she’s never been able to feel the same way.
But when she looks back at him, she still finds him all alone, laughing and talking to whatever’s in front of him. She looks all around her, searching for someone—anyone at all to prove that she’s wrong, that she isn’t just imagining things, but all she could find are the familiar faces of her colleagues and the other soldiers, too drunk and too focused in their own little worlds to even notice anything unsightly going on around them.
She frowns, and with her still uncertain what to make of the whole thing, she settles instead on simply watching, careful not to be seen as she takes in as much detail she could, no matter how tiny or insignificant, committing them to memory for later use. Maybe she can ask him all about this in the morning, when he isn’t drunk out of his mind?
Tartaglia laughs once more—a loud, musical sound that rings all throughout the bar, floating above the chaos, the murmured conversations in the background, the array of voices that comes from all over the bar—loud and persistent, almost annoying.
But when she looks back at him once again, she finds that he’s still rooted in the same spot as before, still leaning against the counter, and still speaking in that same tone as before, slow and sweet and flirty that it’s almost enough to make her cringe. God, who even taught him to say things like that?
“You still haven’t told me anything new about yourself, darling,” he drawls, his voice light and easy, his words playful and familiar. Signora furrows her eyebrows in confusion, though she keeps her eyes locked on him the whole time, refusing to look away, afraid she’ll miss out on a single detail if she so much as does something as blink.
Curious, she continues to watch him intently, waiting for the answer to her question, and as it finally dawns on her, all she could do is laugh, the sound spilling loudly out of her throat: wild and frenzied.
Boldly, she strides over to him, crossing her arms over her chest as a hint of amusement dances in her eyes, her lips curled up into the tiniest of smiles. Tartaglia, only now noticing her presence, stares at her for the longest time, a mixture of curiosity and confusion written on his face.
“What are you doing here, Signora?” he asks, though the words are barely comprehensible through his drunken haze. With a tiny shake of her head, Signora chooses to ignore his question, opting to ask one of her own instead.
“Having fun with the chair?” she asks, a teasing lilt in her voice. With a smirk, she points a finger at the wooden chair in front of him, still and quiet and completely unresponsive to his… methods of flirtation.
“What?” Tartaglia asks, turning around to face her, his eyebrows furrowed in obvious confusion. There is a moment’s pause as he tries to process her words, and then ever so slowly, he blinks, turning away from her to stare at whatever she’s pointing at, taking a long look at the furniture in front of him like he’s just seeing it for the first time.
And then a moment later and he is shaking his head in disbelief, turning back at her to give her an incredulous stare.
“That’s not a chair,” he protests, and she nearly laughs at the tone of his voice. Is he actually whining? He points at the chair and when he speaks once more, his voice is suddenly serious, resolute, suddenly determined to prove his point. “That’s (Name).”
Signora shakes her head and sighs, though she couldn’t help the small laugh that spills out of her lips. “You’ve clearly had enough of that, Tartaglia,” she says gently, eyeing the glass in his hand with disdain. Slowly, she moves closer to him, and places a hand on his shoulder, trying to steer him away from the chair—a rare gesture of comfort and reassurance. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? You need it.”
“No,” he replies, refusing to budge an inch, his feet remaining rooted in his spot. When he turns back to look at her once more, she could see the determined glint in his eyes, bright and intense. “That’s not a chair,” he insists, narrowing his eyes at her, suddenly annoyed.
Signora opens her mouth to say something more, but then he stops her with a hand, shaking his head as though he’s had enough of her speaking. He moves away from her, nearly tripping over his own two feet, and slowly, her hands fall away from his shoulders, dropping back down against her sides. Curious, she watches him carefully, silently wondering what he’s up to this time.
“Look here,” he says, and then holds up a hand, slowly inching ever so closer to the chair, leaning down to whisper in a voice that tries too hard to keep quiet… and only ending up in a complete failure.
“Hey (Name),” Tartaglia begins in a stage whisper, his voice loud enough to drown out every other conversation in the distance. Briefly, he shoots a glance in her direction, and then looks down to give a drunken grin at the chair. “Will you tell Signora hello so she knows you’re here, too?”
But another silence is the only thing that greets them both, with Tartaglia’s request remaining completely unfulfilled, unanswered. For a moment, Signora could only stare at him in disbelief, but then a moment later, she turns away from him and heaves a sigh, heavy with exasperation.
With a tiny shake of her head, she slowly walks away from the scene, leaving the young man to himself once more. In the background, she could still hear his voice, could still hear his laughter, loud and boisterous as it echoes into the dark night. Murmuring quiet curses under her breath, Signora rubs her temple with the pads of her fingers, desperate to ease the headache she could already feel coming.
This is indeed going to be a long night.