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// Frankly - Blueblood & Gilda [Crack Javelin] 
// Story: Table for Two 
// by KitsuneRisu 
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One part espresso to three parts steamed milk.

No frills about it, just a simple drink brewed to perfection.

The caffè latte sat upon a plain white saucer, and next to it on a plate of its own was a half-eaten croissant, surrounded on all sides by golden-brown flakes that had crumbled off after the pastry had sustained a particularly hefty bite.

Blueblood brought a napkin to his lips.

As with all the other times before, Blueblood did not fail to notice The Owner’s frown as he made his order. The chalkboard menu above the bar consisted of only a short list of speciality drinks, but squeezed into the bottom corner as if it were an afterthought was a small blurb that said “or ask for anything else”, and so Blueblood did just that.

He asked for food.

And begrudgingly, The Owner gave a small nod, shuffled into the back room, and returned with the fluffiest, most decadent piece of breakfast bread that Blueblood had ever seen in his entire life.

For a time Blueblood wondered why such magnificent croissants were kept from the public eye but that interest never turned into an inquiry, and that inquiry eventually became his own little secret.

The Cafe was always quiet in the morning. Despite the superb coffee, despite the croissants kept under wraps, the place always seemed to be on the verge of a long, deep sleep, kept awake only by the small trickle of curious drifters who just so happened to be ambling by. But for now, he was alone within the walls of the shop. 

And it was quiet.

A crowd would only ruin the mood.

And as Blueblood mulled over his thoughts with a slow sip of his drink, there came the sounds of outside floating through the open door, but only for a moment before the click-clack of something sharp on wood drowned out the noise altogether. Blueblood looked up just in time to see the door swing shut on silent hinges and there, looking as out of place as a square peg in a round hole was–

“A griffon,” said Blueblood, as if announcing that the sky was indeed blue.

The griffon’s gaze slowly drifted across the empty bar, grazed the chalkboard menu, and focused on the open checkout counter before she turned her head to the side and regarded Blueblood with a particularly suspicious stare.

“You run this joint?”

Blueblood set down his cup. “Not quite."

“Then talk about some stellar customer service." She frowned, looked around the empty cafe once more, and sighed. "What do I gotta do, hop the bar and make something myself?"

Blueblood held back a grin. For a species whose faces were fifty percent beak, griffons were no less expressive than the most open-hearted of ponies – if one were trained to spot the signs, of course. And Blueblood saw in this griffon a certain quality to her scowl, a certain fire in her eyes and heard enough of her sandpaper voice to know that she was the type of individual who sneered rather than smiled, and if there ever occurred a situation so embarrassing and terrible that caused her to laugh, she would most certainly be laughing at you rather than with you.

Or maybe he was just imagining things.

“I’m sure the owner is around,” said Blueblood. “Irritable kind of fellow, but he’s accommodated me quite well so far. Why don’t you have a seat while you wait?"

“I don’t plan on sticking around long."

“You’re blocking the doorway."

The griffon’s wings rose slightly. She glanced over her shoulder, bunched up her talons, and started toward Blueblood with an unidentifiable look. She stopped at the edge of the table, eyes narrowing as she grasped the chair opposite of him, yanked it out, and dropped into the seat.

“Well, you don't have to sit here,” Blueblood said. “Why, I imagine anywhere else would be all the better for you."

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” The griffon raised a brow.

“I make poor conversation."

“So do I."

“Then all the more reason you should sit somewhere else. Two wrongs don’t make a right."

“Is that so?”

“It’s only logical that one and one of a negative will just equal more of that negative, so if you will please, Miss.” He directed a hoof elsewhere. Anywhere that was not close to him.

In a slow motion, the griffon placed both palms on the rim of the table and leaned forward. “I get it. You’re telling me to buzz off. You’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t want anyone getting between you and your–“ she gave a downward glance, “–bread."

“Good. Then let’s not make a big fuss over a small misunderstanding. As brief as our conversation may have been, it has been–"

“I’m not going anywhere."

“–a pleasure.” Blueblood’s smile fell away. “What?"

“I’m not going anywhere,” the griffon repeated.

“What? Why?"

She actually had the nerve to look astonished. “Because you’re the only pony who’s ever told me what to do? Seriously, any other pony would have used up every single ounce of their guts just to squeak out an 'excuse me’ or ‘sorry’ or whatever else you ponies say to get away from the big bad griffon. But you? You must have tons of guts. More guts than every single pony put together. Like literal tons of guts and ba–"

“Please,” Blueblood said. "Enough with the guts."

“Right."

Blueblood sighed, rubbing at his forehead. He couldn’t believe he actually wanted to know, and before he could stop himself his mouth was dropping open and the words were spilling from his lips.

“Perhaps introductions are in order?” came the sounds from his mouth.

“Gilda,” came the reply from her beak, dancing on the air between them before finding a home in his ears. “The name’s Gilda."

“Gilda,” he repeated.

It flowed quite nicely.

“As for myself, my name is Blueblood. I’m something of a regular here, as strange as that may seem."

“Not really,” Gilda said, looking around. "I can see the appeal. It’s kind of a cozy little place, isn’t it?"

“Indeed it is."

“Is it always so empty though?"

Blueblood regarded his coffee. “Only when I’m here."

“Huh."

Blueblood looked up.

“You don’t smell bad,” said Gilda, wearing an inquisitive expression. “And it’s not like you’re hard on the eyes either."

“Er–"

“I’ve been around enough ponies to know the difference. What are you, like a supermodel or something?"

“Uh–"

“Doesn’t matter. Because let me tell you, you’ve got a killer mane. I bet when it’s windy outside, your hair goes like 'whoosh’, all majestic-like and such.” Gilda drummed her talons on the table, then smiled. “Bet it drives the girls crazy."

Blueblood could only blink at the griffon. She had turned toward the window, her chin resting in a cradle of claws as her eyes followed something that only she could see.

“It’s nice,” began Blueblood, “talking with someone so forthcoming."

“Huh?” She looked up. 

“Candid."

“Can-what?"

“Honest,” Blueblood said. “You’ll say anything that pops into your mind, won’t you? It’s nice. Refreshing."

“Well, why wouldn’t I?” Gilda said. “Words are like… they’re words. They’re things you create and put out into the world, you know? They’re a part of you. So when you say something that means one thing, but inside you meant something completely different, it’s like ‘what are you doing?’."

Gilda paused. “You’re just twisting yourself up."

“Feelings can get hurt very easily that way,” said Blueblood.

“And you know what I say to that?” Gilda jabbed a finger into the table. “I say screw them, because why should I be dishonest with myself just to spare the feelings of some weakling who’s gonna get offended by what I say? Me, a complete stranger to them. It’s ridiculous."

Gilda huffed, shaking her head.

“And you know what else? Why am I the one who gets the stink-eye, the one who’s expected to keep her mouth shut after the babies come crying and the hammer comes down? Gosh, as if it’s my fault for sharing what I think. So much for being open with others, right?"

Blueblood nodded slowly. In front of him, his breakfast remained half-finished, completely forgotten in the midst of the sulking griffon. He gave his mane an errant flick with a hoof.

Still in place.

“Ah but you see, it’s not so much about never speaking your mind so much as it is, well… about filtering what you say."

“But that just goes back to twisting your own words."

Blueblood wrinkled his chin. “Ah, no.”

“What? You’re gonna have to give me something better than a ’no’ there, bud."

“It’s called tact,” said Blueblood. “For example, say, in a completely hypothetical situation, there was someone called Person A standing in... say, a doorway, blocking it in such a way that no one else could enter or exit. No one gets their morning coffee, all hope is lost, et cetera, et cetera. Many thanks, Person A."

Gilda raised a brow.

“Now imagine someone called Person B,” Blueblood continued. “An innocent bystander who just so happened to be inside the coffee shop when disaster struck. He notices the crisis and within his own mind, is presented with two paths on how he should proceed. Should he be nice and ask kindly if Person A would move, or should he point out in as blunt a fashion as possible that she is preventing everyone else entry with her massive, massive frame."

Blueblood smirked.

“Did you just call me fat?” asked Gilda.

“I have no idea what you are talking about."

“And what the heck! The second option, that’s exactly what you did!"

“That’s what Person B did, you mean."

“Uh, no, Blue. You never said what Person B did because you just stopped, so all that tells me is that you were clearly drawing on real life for your 'hypothetical situation', right? Something that happened five minutes ago maybe?"

Gilda let out a thoughtful hum, scratching the side of her head.

“So which one was the better choice?” she asked.

“That depends entirely on how you perceived me, doesn’t it?”

The feathers on Gilda’s shoulders ruffled upwards in a griffon’s version of a shrug.

“You know, Blue, only one of those choices would have made me sit down in this chair and try and figure you out. You’re kind of an honest guy yourself.”

Blueblood concealed his smile with a hoof. “And to think I come in here to escape the incessant chatter of ponies."

Gilda raised a single claw.

“Pony?” she asked.

And in that moment, The Owner emerged from the back room, bearing a tray loaded with sparkling, clear glasses on his back. He disappeared behind the bar, emerging seconds later sans tray and wearing the warmest grin as he approached the table.

“Miss Gilda,” The Owner said. “You appear to have have had time to consider. Can I take your order?"

“Uh,” she looked the bespectacled stallion, to Blueblood, then back again, “I’ll have what he’s having?"

“An excellent choice,” said The Owner. “Shall I bring your caffè latte to the table or would you like to take it at the counter?"

“Table’s fine, thanks."

“Very good. I’ll be back momentarily.” And with a slight bow of his head, The Owner disappeared in the same manner that he came, leaving the two in silence.

Brow furrowed, Gilda leaned over the table and whispered, “How in the whole wide world did he know my name?"

Blueblood shrugged. 

“I haven’t the foggiest."

The griffon said nothing as she glanced out the window before gesturing to the array of the tableware in front of Blueblood with a drum of her claws.

“So,” she began, “is it any good?"

“Hm?"

“Your drink. How is it?"

“Ah.” Blueblood’s horn sparked to life as he levitated the cup to his lips and drained what little remained. He set the cup down and regarded the griffon with a small smile.

“It’s fit for a prince,” he said.