#and that leather jacket is coming off faster than you can say elvis

[warmrevolver]

There’s a special place carved out in my heart for teddy boy johnny…

he’s kept in a heart shaped locket in my mind like he’s my forbidden lover I can’t tell my parents about

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Of Princess Bride Past

PART THIRTY-TWO OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 5.1K

Summary: Ella plays piano for the first time in a long while.

Rushing up the stairs to the apartment, Ella almost tripped more than once. The main floor of Truncheon was empty, books shut and the sign on the front door turned to Closed. Rain showered down hard, and all manner of umbrella patterns could be seen on the sidewalk outside. Her own umbrella, collapsed and dripping, sat next to the front door. She’d practically thrown it down in her hurry. Biting down on her cheek, she was nearly out of breath by the time she made it through the apartment door. Everyone was mingling in the living room, nursing beers and waiting for the last member of the group to arrive. They looked up at the sound of her huffy entrance and offered greetings.

She barely gave anyone a glance as she hung up her raincoat and began undoing her french braid on her walk to the bedroom. “Sorry, sorry. Just give me five minutes and I won’t look like a bank teller anymore.”

Seven o’clock had come and gone, and she had still been stuck in the lecture hall, while her advisor gave her notes on the presentation in art history. All in all, her advisor had been impressed. But she was not one for brevity, and Ella had taken several anxious peeks at her watch during the review. It was the last day of class before spring break, and Ella was eager for the week off. She’d been so busy with midterms, she hadn’t been able to make it to any of Leo’s recent gigs. But he was due on stage at Keeley’s between eight and eight-thirty. And there was no way she was going to the show dressed in her blazer and pencil skirt, gray and stiff. She’d worn it only because one of the oldest men on the entire faculty had been sitting in on her presentation, and Ella had heard about his penchant for professionalism.

Ella thought she heard Chris yell some crack at her outfit after her, but she had already slammed the bedroom door. She stripped out of her clothes, throwing them in the hamper with disdain. She hoped it would be some time before she would have to wear anything of the sort again. Opening up a dresser drawer, she ran her eyes over prospective outfits for the night.

Breathing a frustrated sigh, she pulled a grayish-purple babydoll dress over her head and went to sit down on the bed to tug on her fishnets. After having appraised herself in the mirror above the dresser, she decided her makeup was decent enough and touch-ups would be unnecessary. She was wearing far less than normal, anyway. She had a feeling the ancient history professor who sat in wouldn’t exactly smile upon thick eyeliner or dark lipstick. The need to change her look simply to please the man made her skin crawl, but she could see no other way out. He had once ordered a graduate student out from behind the podium because his shirt had a stain.

The next time she was in class, though, she would be back in her grungy attire. Just putting on the fishnets made her feel more comfortable than she had been all day. She reached under the bed, grabbed her Doc Martens, and laced them up faster than she previously thought was humanly possible.

She was about to go back out into the living room, prepared to return to the flooded streets at a moment’s notice. But then she passed the mirror again and, on second thought, decided she simply couldn’t stand not doing something interesting with her face. She swiped on some dark wine-colored lipstick and gave herself a tiny cateye with a trained, precise hand. Having done winged liner on and off since high school, she found practice had made her skilled enough to get it right on the first try about half the time. It was perhaps her greatest accomplishment in life.

Grabbing her secondhand leather jacket, she trudged back out into the living room. She ran her fingers through her hair a few more times, untangling the remnants of her braid and smoothing down the dark blonde waves.

“We wouldn’t have been late even if we left thirty minutes from now,” Matthew said, standing up with Mabel by his side.

“Well, on time is late, and early is on time,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

Chris rolled his eyes as he also rose, from his armchair, and made his way to the coat rack. “Were you the hall monitor or something in high school?”

Jess snorted a laugh, his nose still buried in a Hunter Thompson book where he sat on the couch. “Far from it.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean, Mariano?” she asked, furrowing her brows.

Smirking, Jess shut his book and tossed it on the coffee table. He went to grab his black jacket, while everyone mingled by the door, ready to brave the weather on the short walk to Keeley’s. “You threatened to stab me the first time you met me.”

“With a butterknife,” Ella countered defensively.

The rest of the group snickered, exiting the apartment and filing down the stairs.

“Ah, young love,” Chris teased. His pale cheeks were rosy, his blue eyes wide with excitement. Despite how much of a pain in the ass he could be, Ella felt her heart warmed to see how proud he was of his boyfriend.

“I thought he was trying to rob the diner,” Ella continued, grabbing her umbrella again before they went out onto the grimy, damp streets.

The rain had lessened slightly, to a chilly drizzle, but was still wet against her face. Jess took the umbrella from her, then interlaced their fingers with his free hand. She glanced up at him in thanks, and he winked in response. She could feel the scar from where the knife had sliced him the night they planned for their first date.

“Quite the menace, was he?” Matthew asked over his shoulder. Mabel had her arm linked with his, following along with the conversation. They had known her for a few weeks, but Ella suspected she hadn’t quite become comfortable. She was more timid than Ella expected for an actress, but she was truly sweet. Wore her heart on her sleeve, a quality Ella also recognized in Matthew.

“Oh yeah. Dennis was his middle name,” Ella smiled nostalgically. “Think if Sid Vicious and Elvis had a baby. Whose big moves are stealing gnomes and doing close-up magic.”

Chris laughed out loud, nudging Jess in the ribs. Jess blushed, glaring at Ella.

“Aw, were you a little Criss Angel wannabe?” Chris crooned, mocking.

Jess rolled his eyes. “I was not. It seemed to charm Eleanor just fine, anyhow.”

“I was young and misguided,” she said wistfully.

“And you were tripping over your own feet at least once a week,” Jess chimed in. “Though, not much has changed on that front.”

Ella scoffed. “You worked at Walmart.”

“You bought a Train album!”

“That was one time!”

“Once is plenty!”

Staring at him for a long moment, she finally uttered a defeated sigh. “You’re right. Train sucks.”

“Sure does,” Chris chimed in with an amused grin, then shook his head at them fondly and linked up ahead with Mabel and Matthew.

“You’ve won the battle, Mariano,” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “Not the war.”

“Believe me, I know,” he replied, squeezing her hand affectionately, a smirk on his face. “How’d your presentation go today?”

Ella’s face lost a bit of its mirth and she shrugged, dejected. “Okay, I think. My advisor said I was talking too fast, but otherwise I did well. We���ll see.”

“I bet they didn’t know what hit ‘em, honey. I mean, we practiced like fifty times. You had it word-for-word last night,” he said, growing more earnest. “I’m sure you were amazing.”

She averted her eyes from him. “Maybe. I felt like I was getting suffocated up there wearing those clothes, though.”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t the worst outfit,” Jess said. “It had a certain American Psycho thing going for it.”

“And that’s good?” she asked with a doubtful chuckle.

“Not good, per say, but definitely interesting,” he replied, nonchalant. “I can’t believe you can do things like that. Just get up there and speak. I would pass out on the spot.”

“Well, then I’m glad you’ve got a job where you can be all Phantom of the Opera and hide out in that tiny office all day,” she said with a grin.

Over the past few weeks, the guys had finally turned the back rooms of Truncheon, previously just storage space, into offices. Each one could barely hold a desk, but they were enough. Jess had already collected an impressive pile of books in one corner. The Hudson River sketch sat in a small frame next to his bulky, aged computer.

“Yep. Counting my blessings,” he quipped flatly as they approached the bar.

.   .   .

For once, the St. Patrick’s Day decorations hung year-round at Keeley’s were semi-appropriate, with the holiday having been only a week past. They shone, green and tacky, in the yellow light of the main room. Leo sat on a stool on the small stage, doing his final number. An array of instruments were set out around him: guitars, tambourines, a keyboard, a bass. His closing song was played on a ruan, a Chinese lute he’d bought as a teen on a trip to visit his grandparents, when he was just beginning to write his own music. Ella thought it was perhaps his versatility that made Leo such an incredible musician. As only a half-decent piano player, she couldn’t imagine learning something with strings or sticks. She had no idea how he had picked up so many different skills.

Chris, Matthew and Mabel were all floating in the middle distance somewhere between buzzed and fully drunk, nursing local beers and watching Leo with thoughtful, glazed eyes. Both Jess and Ella sipped on club soda, sat in the booth across the table from their friends. No matter how much Ella insisted she didn’t care if Jess drank, he never really did. He thought it was a pretty good idea, considering his own mother’s history with addiction. And what was the point of being drunk if Ella wasn’t going to be drunk with him? It would be no fun if he couldn’t go on the ride with her, anyway.

The crowd had been lively when they first arrived, tables packed and customers chatty. But as the evening wore on, parties left, congestion dissipated. A few lonely individuals sat solemnly at the main bar. Leo had a moderately receptive audience, though the band performing before him had a bit more notoriety and a larger fan-base. By the final number, only the five of them remained at their half-table, half-booth, looking on with pride and intrigue. Ella thought she had never seen Chris smile so big as he did at Leo’s gigs. The starry gaze was a bit saccharine, but most of the time it was tolerable, and even cute.

“He’s really good,” Mabel said softly as Leo reached the instrumental.

“Isn’t he?” Ella whispered back across the table emphatically.

Mabel nodded, her bright brown eyes sparkling. “His voice kinda reminds me of The Smiths”

Ella’s smile widened. “I love them!”

“Oh, they were basically all I listened to in high school,” Mabel said, nodding in agreement.

“Not you too,” Jess chagrined from beside Ella, his arm around her shoulders.

“What?” Mabel asked, raising one of her thick eyebrows. Ella wished she could have Mabel’s eyebrows. They seemed to be shaped perfectly, and didn’t even need to be filled in.  

“Jess thinks he’s too good for indie,” Ella said.

“No, I just never find myself in the mood to listen to some guy whine into the microphone,” Jess said, scoffing slightly.

Ella shook her head in disappointment. “It’s poetry!”

“Even worse,” Jess retorted.

She rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t respond as Leo began singing again. Jess’s fingers ghosted over her shoulder up and down, making pleasant goosebumps rise on her freckled skin. As Leo’s voice rolled gently over the last few words of the song, Ella closed her eyes and felt the notes vibrate in her chest. Jess looked over and found her looking calm, far away inside her mind as she listened. He pressed a kiss to her hair and a tiny smile passed over her lips, though she didn’t open her eyes until the final chord finished its reverberation through the room. The five of them erupted in cheers and applause, which sounded scant in the nearly empty place. Leo smirked at them from the stage and gave a mocking bow.

“They say the underground following is the most devoted,” he muttered into the mic, stripping off his ruan. Then, he looked up at the large clock across the room. “But since we’ve still got ten minutes left, why don’t we get secret musical prodigy Ella Stevens up here?”

Ella’s brow crinkled with confusion, and her smile faltered. “What?”

“You never told me about the piano thing! C’mon, take advantage of this keyboard,” Leo called over the mic.

She glared over at Chris, who pretended not to feel her eyes on him. “What did you tell him?”

After a moment, Chris slowly craned his neck in her direction. “Who? Me?”

“Asshole,” she hissed under her breath, narrowing her eyes.

“Hey, I was simply relaying what little interesting information exists about you,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

Ella ran her finger horizontal across her neck, a teasing threat.

“We don’t have all night, Ella,” Leo continued into the mic.

“Yeah, let’s hear it, Ella. I’m sure you’re great,” Mabel said genuinely, leaning over the table, conspiratory and cheerful. The positivity would have been annoying if Mabel were not so down-to-earth.

“Agreed,” Matthew chimed in.

Ella laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “No one wants to subject their ears to that, I promise.”

“I don’t know, Stevens. I was pretty starstruck the one time I heard you play in all six years I’ve known you,” Jess smirked, eyebrows raised.

“Judas,” she spat at him, removing his arm from her shoulder.

“If you can get up in front of two hundred people to talk about the effect of the lost generation on modern art, you can do this, Daria,” he continued, unphased by her grouchiness.

Heaving an ambivalent sigh, she listened to their persistent encouragement. Then, with one final huff of obstinacy, she stood from the table and marched up to the stage. She flipped them off behind her head as they gave hoots of satisfaction and Leo set the keyboard up at the front of the stage, with the stool and microphone.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she whispered to Leo.

He gave a nod, humoring her. “Yes, I fear you.”

“Well,” she said sardonically, sitting down and watching as he descended the stairs. “In a minute, you’ll pity me. I did not inherit my mother’s talent!”

She felt her heart expand when she saw Chris give Leo a congratulatory kiss before they settled into their seats next to each other. Then, she rolled her eyes at herself for not sticking to her ill will, and dropped her eyes to the keys. They were shiny white and black, newer but less charming than the piano at Miss Patty’s. Her fingers were poised over the keys, and she swallowed dryly, remembering. She’d couldn’t quite place when the last time she’d played had been.

Glancing up nervously, biting the inside of her cheek, she caught Jess’s eye. He threw her another wink and she let out a scoff at him. The longer she sat up there, the more her heart slowed. She straightened her back, felt herself regaining the old position. Resisting the urge to tug anxiously at her earring, she flipped for a moment through her mental catalogue. Then, she cleared her throat and let a small, wicked grin cross her lips.

“Fine. But this is your funeral, everyone,” she quipped. “This song is dedicated to Chris, who is fucking wrong about Joni Mitchell.”

A final, slight shake of her head and she launched into “Blue.” Her fingers were rusty and creaky, but the song flowed out of her as though she had just learned it. She couldn’t sing nearly as high as was necessary for an exact recreation, but she was getting at more of a tuned down interpretation. Her voice was raspy, and Jess was never surprised how much she identified with Stevie Nicks. Though recently, there had been more Amy Winehouse spinning on the turntable. And Ella knew she could never sound remotely like Amy Winehouse.

The stage light was whitish and soft, and Jess could feel his heart do a skip at the sight of her. She wasn’t the greatest musical talent, but it wasn’t pure talent which made her breathtaking to him. It was the way her eyes shut and her voice lilted with emotion. How she lit up so wholly when she played. And how fearless she had always been, putting herself out there with not a care in the world for what others thought of her. No stage fright, only perfectionism holding her back. She was only ever completely herself, perhaps what he admired most about her. His intrepid artist, with dimples and green flecks in her eyes and messy hair and a fashion sense not quite like anyone else. Warmth filled his heart and his body and his mind, and he could only watch her with a tiny smirk on his face. And he had never felt so sure of anything before.

.   .   .

The cap of the red pen was clamped between her teeth, her back against the wall, Nietzche staring overhead. Suppressing a yawn, she placed brackets around a paragraph she liked particularly well. Her first read-through of the new book had taken almost no time at all, as she devoured Jess’s prose fervently. She’d suggested some revisions, added some comments, without being asked. Jess insisted she didn’t have to do that work for him, especially not for free, but she told him she simply enjoyed it. It reminded her of the days when they wrote notes to each other in borrowed texts, those which ended up sitting in a shared pile, all mixed together, in their bedroom. And he had only smiled in response. Once again, it had shocked him how invested she could be in art. Not that he would ever call his writing ‘art,’ especially how much he despised his first novel upon rereading. But Ella asked for the second draft once he had revised, offering her critical eye, if he wanted it. He did, of course. And she was nearly done. There were noticeable improvements, and several new sections. It was coming together before her eyes, and sometimes she wanted to tear up out of pride.

Breeze seeped in through the draughty window, and she tugged the blanket up over herself a little more. Her impromptu performance at the bar, which ended with her flustered in the wake of everyone’s compliments even though she was aware she was nothing compared to Leo, had left her jittery and awake. Even after the presentation at school. Not exactly anxious, but charged with pseudo energy. She was only riding it until the crash. Jess wasn’t snoring yet, and she knew he wasn’t asleep, but dozing. Midnight had already passed into the early morning, and the rain was picking up again, pounding on the roof above them. Every so often, Ella looked precariously up at the water spot near the bedroom door.

Sighing faintly, she turned the page, more semi-stream-of-consciousness insights after a perspective shift. She had to commend him on his recent experimentation. She hadn’t expected it. Her face softened as she read the next paragraph, a new addition to the draft. It was through the eyes of the main character as he watched a woman paint a mural on a nondescript city street.

Racing, racing, racing of his heart, beating against his ribs like footsteps at the sight of the woman. Eyes from bottom to top, from battered shoes to patterned skirt and button-up shirt, protected by a dirty, threadbare apron. Strangers, he thought, strangers everywhere with separate stories to tell, unaware of his thoughts or his feelings or his words or his face. She looked like she belonged, despite her complete uniquity. He couldn’t imagine looking so established in any place, so uniform in unconformity. He wondered who she was painting it for, the ghostly figure surrounded by dead flowers and trash, a vision of the post-industrial American wasteland. Not many people were likely to see it under the bridge, which looked like where teenagers would come to smash light bulbs and kiss each other with teeth clashing together and sweat out their last bit of rebellion. He wondered who had assigned her the location, if she had chosen it herself, if she was painting only for herself.

The intensity in her eyes told him she could have been, green pools of vigor and concentration as he approached, boots rhythmic on the cracked sidewalk. A tragedy, he thought suddenly, staring at her near-finished creation, she was painting a tragedy and she knew it. She could feel it. He saw it not so much in her form as in the eyes of the ghost in the painting, hollow and desolate, with a single jewel of color in the middle. The rest of the piece was only in shades of gray, a hopelessness exacerbated by more small, foolish hope. He almost laughed under his breath, instead allowing his eyes to fall back on her as he passed around her, leaving considerable space between them. He didn’t want to interfere, break her focus, not that she looked as though she could ever be shaken by anything. Their eyes locked for only a moment, as she stepped back to regard her work. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, she only saw. She saw, and then she was out of sight again. And another story was behind him.

Smirking slightly as she read, she capped the pen again once she had finished. And she placed the manuscript on the bedside table neatly next to her. She switched off the last lamp and settled down into the sheets. Jess breathed deeply, stirring at her movements. She turned over on one side to face him, their noses only inches apart.

“Jess?” she asked.

“Hm?” he hummed, eyes cracking open.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I’m getting there,” he shrugged, though they both knew it wasn’t exactly the truth.

Ella nodded. “Well, I got to the part where he sees the woman painting the mural. And I have to say, I think I recognize the influences.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Maybe James Joyce wasn’t completely incoherent. It wasn’t serious, though. It was meant to be making fun of his adolescent emotionality, like Stephen in Portrait.”

“Ah, I think I’ve officially converted you,” she said, her smile growing wider.

“I think you’re speaking too soon,” he replied.

“Agree to disagree.” Her tone was light and sincere as she continued, though her smile shrank. “Did you really love me when you first saw me?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it, Chatty Kathy?” she asked, eyebrows raised in annoyance.

Jess sighed. “Well, what do you wanna know?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to understand it,” she said, studying his face with narrowed eyes. If he knew the section she had just read, he shouldn’t have been surprised by the question. Besides, she had been wondering for a while. How someone who had been bitten by the world so many times could still believe something so romantic. In a way, she was envious, and in another way, she was scared for him. “Why did you tell me it was that day in the gazebo?”

He paused for a long moment, running his hand over his mouth. She could see his grandfather’s necklace peeking out from the collar of his t-shirt and glinting in the moonlight, which streamed through the window. He barely ever took it off.

“Well, first of all, I knew there was no chance you’d run away with me if you thought I was crazy enough to believe in love at first sight,” he explained slowly, trying to ignore the embarrassed squirming in his stomach. “I was trying not to scare you off. Shocking, I know, considering what a Romeo and Juliet stunt I was pulling.”

“He could’ve just waited to drink the poison,” she agreed, earning her a chuckle.

“And, at the time,” he continued, growing a bit more confident in his articulation, “I wasn’t even sure. For a long time, I couldn’t figure out when I fell in love with you. Eventually, I realized the reason was because I had been in love with you the entire time.”

She hummed, her brows furrowing inquisitively. “I just can’t imagine it.”

“Which is why the amount of poetry you read will never make sense,” he said. Then, after a moment more of gathering his thoughts: “And it’s not the same kind of love. It’s still love, but it’s not the same as what I felt after I got to know you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Breathing out a long breath, Jess searched again for the right phrases.

“I don’t know, Stevens,” he admitted, biting down on his lip for a moment. “Maybe it’s more like I knew I would love you. I saw you, and I knew I loved you before I knew why I loved you. Now, I know why.”

She nodded earnestly against her pillow, damp hair smelling of lavender. “Curiouser and curiouser, Mariano.”

“Not to the Hemingway fans among us,” he said.

“Well, Hemingway fans are the biggest romantics. It’s a universal law,” she replied, voice growing heavier with fatigue. Finally, it seemed, the rush of the night was wearing off, replaced by a tranquil ease she hadn’t expected. Spring break was long overdue.

“So I’ve heard,” he replied fondly. “I told you the first time we met, y’know.”

“What?”

“That I loved you.”

She furrowed her brows suspiciously, a smirk tugging at one corner of her lips. “I think I would’ve remembered that.”

“Well, I didn’t say it in so many words.” Jess’s eyes twinkled with teasing, and she scoffed.

“You did not.”

“Yes, I certainly did.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious, Daria.”

Her face lost its brevity as she saw he was, in fact, serious, despite how cocky he sounded. Playing the memory over in her mind, she was hit was nostalgia and confusion. Humming Stevie Nicks, spilling salt, empty threats, cleaning tables with Jess following behind her, never losing his wiseass remarks or his sarcastic grin. Then, after a moment, it hit her. As you wish. She had hardly noticed it at the time. Only a reference, leading to their first argument over movies versus books. The words Wesley had spoken to Buttercup in The Princess Bride as a way of saying 'I love you.' She never even considered its meaning.

She let out a breathy, surprised chuckle. Meeting his eyes again, she shoved his shoulder playfully and flipped onto her back. She stared up at the ceiling, noticing the water spot again. The raindrops pattered a steady beat. “Fuck off.”

“What?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow and tilting his head at her in amused askance.

“Jesus. That is so...sweet and wonderful. And fucking cheesy. Makes me sick,” she said, though she grinned through her words. She sighed and shook her head slightly, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as she giggled again. “I don’t know whether to murder you or marry you.”

His breath caught in his throat for a second, but he regained his composure before she opened her eyes again and smiled up at him. “Well, maybe meet me in the middle and let’s get our own apartment?”

“Really?” she asked. So much information was flying at her, she didn’t know which thread to latch onto. And, unbeknownst to Jess, she was fighting the lump in her throat. She may have been a realist, but she wasn’t heartless. And she wondered how long she would be able to hold off the tears that threatened to spill over. A deep, aching love spread throughout her. It almost made her dizzy with joy. As you wish, he had said. It played over in her head suddenly, as though she had just heard it.

“Yeah,” he said, averting his gaze hesitantly. “It doesn’t have to be right away. There’ll probably be more leases in the summer once all the students go home. But I thought...maybe we’d have room for a keyboard or something. An easel, too. And we could stop hearing Chris and Matthew argue over which place has the best burritos at three in the morning. What do you think?”

“We could get an actual shelf for all your books,” she said, holding her smile.

“Yeah. You could organize them whatever way, if you want.” Jess tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as he spoke, then leaving his hand to rest on her cheek. “Or, I could do it. There is a method to my madness, y’know.”

“Okay, I’ll definitely need a couple months to decide whether to do color coordination or alphabetical order, then,” she said.

Jess chuckled. “Yeah, we’ll take some time. But...you want to?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do, James Dean,” she whispered softly. She placed a gentle hand on the back of his neck, and brought him in to place a sweet kiss on his lips. He smiled against her, nerves calming and body relaxing with her touch.

As they broke apart, he laid back down on his side, drawing her closer to him with an arm over her waist.

“I love you, Mariano,” she said, eyes fluttering shut.

“Love you back, Stevens,” he replied, thinking he may not be able to handle the pleasant butterflies erupting in his middle.

She breathed in contentedly. “And your new book is the next Great American Novel.”

“I doubt the New York Times will think so.”

“Well, I do,” she said simply. “You’re the fucking best.”

“It’s been said,” he quipped, finally shutting his own eyes. Their words had turned to murmurs, cozy and soft beneath the sound of the rain.

“But, I especially love how humble you are,” she added, yawning against the back of her hand.

“Right back at ya,” he deadpanned.

Snorting a laugh, Ella shifted so she was flush against him, warm in the cold room. And, by the time the sun rose through the breaking clouds, the rain had stopped completely.

[let-it-raines]

I'm going to follow the "it's the time for giving" motto of that annon and give you my love and admiration, because you and your writing always brighten my day. Also, could I ask for a CS fic where someone walks by a street musician every day in her way to work and she always bring him coffe and something to eat because she thinks he's poor and could use some help, but actually he's like a super star and just plays in the street for fun? 😘

Hi, Anon! Thanks so much for your kind words! They brighten my day, and I really appreciate you and want to give you all of my love and admiration! I love this idea, and I really hope you like this prompt answer!

She’s not exactly sure how it started, but she stops by The Bean (yeah, she knows it’s a cheesy name for a coffee shop but it’s better and cheaper than Starbucks) and buys two cups of coffee five days a week. One is black, the bitter smell of the hot liquid invading her senses, while the other is full of sugar and milk, really more of a latte than anything. But she’s never been a fan of coffee alone. She likes when it’s mixed in with sweets, and she can get her sugar and caffeine fix all at once.

If she has to walk a few extra blocks to burn it off, it’s worth it.

So she buys two cups, walks out of The Bean, and makes her way to the office, her heels tucked away in her purse while her feet are clothed in white tennis shoes to walk the New York streets. She looks like every movie cliché of a New Yorker, but she doesn’t care. She’s not crazy enough to wear heels while walking (and walking and walking) through crowds to get to work.

The sounds of horns honking, people talking, tires screeching, and buildings being repaired with the loudest drills imaginable fill her ears for a few blocks until things start to get quieter and calmer, Manhattan someone feeling a little peaceful. And like every morning, she hears a guitar being expertly plucked and a melodic voice singing along to a song from at least half a century ago, and she smiles at the familiar, wonderful sound.

The source of the music comes into sight when she turns the corner and passes the thirty-third street subway station. She could have swiped her metro card and ridden here, sure, but she’s got to work off the latte (and maybe the pizza she ate last night). Plus, she likes watching the people, tourists mixed with locals, and all of the different cultures being combined. She’s not saying New York City is the greatest city in the world, but it’s got to come close with the way it’s like walking through different countries and cultures all in one day.

Today’s apparently a Frank Sinatra day for her favorite street performer, a fitting choice for New York City, and she can already feel herself humming along as she gets closer and closer to him. Today he’s got on an old Yankees cap, the blue edges fraying on the side, as well as his usual jeans with worn out holes in the knees and his trusty black leather jacket that he must take expert care of for the condition it’s in. He smiles when he sees her, nodding his head in acknowledgment, but not stopping his playing. He’s really brilliant, could probably be somebody if he wasn’t a street musician in an area where it’s mostly poor recent graduates and curry restaurants, but life isn’t fair and sometimes the talented don’t get their big break.

When she checks her watch, she realizes she doesn’t have time to stay and listen or chat, as they sometimes do, so she carefully places his black coffee down next to his guitar case, flashes him a smile, and is then off to work.

And so goes nearly every morning of her life.

Tuesday he sings the songs of Elvis. She gives him his coffee.

Wednesday it’s the Beatles, his one voice somehow capturing some of the magic of all of theirs. She gives him his coffee.

Thursday it’s Bing Crosby. She gives him his coffee.

Friday he jams out to the Backstreet Boys. She gives him his coffee and a tip for making her laugh before eight in the morning on a Friday after a long week of work.

Her weekend passes as normal, time spent doing laundry, buying groceries, cleaning, and going out with her friends on Saturday night, and on Monday, she buys her two cups of coffee and makes her way to work. She gets to Murray Hill, expecting to see her musical coffee acquaintance, but he’s not there.

And he’s not there on Tuesday or Wednesday or for the next two weeks. After week one, she stops buying the coffee, having to tell her regular barista she doesn’t need it. She gets a pitying look, something she does not appreciate it, and she carries that awful feeling in her gut on her way to work and every time she takes a sip of her own coffee. It’s ridiculous how one little change in her day can affect her so much, but she’s a woman of routine. She likes doing the same thing at the same time, and her British street singer not being there is throwing her off in the mornings.

She wonders if maybe he got a job, something that takes up his mornings. She doesn’t really know what he did to begin with, if he even had a job. She’s always kind of assumed he didn’t have one or maybe he worked gigs at night along with his street performances. He’s a nice looking guy, stunning blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard that covers a defined jaw, and his hair is always cleanly cut. So he definitely spends time on his appearance and has the funds to do so, but she doesn’t know many people who have well-paying jobs and spend their mornings performing on the streets.

He’s a mystery, one she thinks about far too much on her strolls to and from work, and as the days pass, she wonders where her Mystery Musical Man has gone off to.

But then one day, music blaring in her headphones, she’s walking her same path, one coffee cup in her hand, and she sees him strumming along on his guitar. She’s a little early this morning, so even though she doesn’t have his coffee, she stops and listens to him playing a majorly stripped down version of We Are the Champions.

There’s no one else around, everyone looking past the street performer, so when it’s over, she throws some cash into the guitar case and flashes him a smile before opening her mouth. “Where have you been?”

He quirks an eyebrow, the thick black brow practically reaching his hairline, before he flashes his perfectly white teeth and eyes her coffee mug. “Did you miss me?”

She shrugs, not really sure how to carry on this conversation with a man who is a stranger but also not. “I guess so. I didn’t – I stopped buying your coffee. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, love,” he insists, “I wasn’t around. Wouldn’t want you to waste your money, but I did miss you and your coffee.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. They don’t make black coffee in LA, and they don’t have pretty lasses bring it to you.”

That throws her for multiple reasons, but it’s mostly because he admitted to being in LA…and maybe a little bit that he called her pretty, but she’s going to harbor that secret inside and pretend her cheeks don’t heat. But seriously. What the hell was he doing in LA? Is she even allowed to ask? Is that taking a step too far?

“What a pity,” she says instead of everything she wants to say. “I wonder how you survived.”

“The hardest few weeks of my life honestly. I didn’t think I was going to make it.”She barks out a laugh before talking to him for a few more minutes, only leaving when she absolutely has to get to the office, and while her life feels a little more settled having him back, she’s also full of every question imaginable.

Mostly, what the hell does he do? Why was he in LA for weeks? Why does he perform in such a calm spot when there are better out there? And what is his name?

The next day she buys two cups of coffee, the barista giving her another pitying smile, and she walks her usual walk, dropping the steaming cup off every day. They talk a little more than they used to, but it’s never about anything serious, and she still doesn’t have any answers to any of her questions. If anything, the man is more of a mystery than he was at the beginning, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

He’s between songs when she walks up, his guitar resting on his back, and so she hands him his cup instead of placing it on the ground.

“Thank you, love.”

“Yeah, no problem.” She doesn’t know what else to say, the awkwardness somehow filling the entirety of Manhattan. But like the smooth talker she is, she blurts out her next words. “What’s your name?”

He’s in the middle of sipping on his coffee when she asks, so she impatiently watches him drink the liquid, his throat bobbing, and it takes a hell of a lot of restraint to hold herself back from just running away.

“Killian,” he finally answers, flashing her a smile. “And you?”

“Do you not have a last name?”

“I do. I just didn’t think you’d care.”

“I care. I’m Emma Swan if that helps.”

“Jones then. Killian Jones.”

Her lips twitch, laughter practically bubbling below the surface. “Did you phrase it that way so you could say your name like James Bond?”

“I guess you’ll never know.”

So now she knows Mystery Musical Man’s name, but she doesn’t think she’s ever going to call him anything else in her head. That’s what she’s called him for months now, and it’s hard to change things. But now he calls her Swan every morning, and it makes her smile. Of course, it’s only after a few weeks that she realizes he likely knew her name because it was on all of the coffee cups. But she kind of finds it endearing that he never used her name without her permission.

It starts with an exchange of coffee, and the floodgates open when there’s an exchange of names. Every day is nearly the same, but when she hands him his coffee, he calls her Swan and makes an extra effort to interact with her. Sometimes he even messes with lyrics, changing the names around to fit hers, and it brightens her day so that work doesn’t seem so dreary. As the days pass, they talk more and more. She wakes up earlier to buy their coffee so she can get to Murray Hill faster, and they talk until she absolutely has to go to work, his musical stylings lessening as they get caught up in talking to each other, learning a bit more about the other.

She tells him she’s in family law, and he tells her he’s a musician. She doesn’t quite understand that, really wanting to know what he does outside of performing on the street, but he never says more. If he doesn’t want to share, that’s perfectly fine. The only reason she’s sharing things about herself is because this is a man she talks to for fifteen minutes a day and who likely will move his spot somewhere else more populated to make more money.

But he never moves. He’s always there, and if he’s not going to be, he tells her the day before. All of the changes become part of her routine, and she becomes quite fond of her daily chats with Mystery Musical Man Killian Jones.

And then one day everything changes.

There’s a monsoon raging through New York, water hitting you no matter how bundled up you are in your rain boots and coats and umbrellas. The streets are as full of water as they are of people, and as much as she logically knows there’s no way Killian’s going to be performing today, she still stops in The Bean and goes to buy her coffee.

“Hey, Hannah, can I get the usual?”

“Uh, the guy in the gray beanie over there,” she points to the corner of the shop where there’s a man bundled up in plaid and jeans with the aforementioned beanie on, “he already bought your orders. Is that the boyfriend you’ve been buying coffee for all this time?”

“No boyfriend,” she answers automatically, still staring at the man to see if it’s Killian. She can’t tell from this angle. “But I’m gonna go see who this guy is.”

She nods to Hannah before walking away and walking toward the man in the corner. He’s pretty well hidden, which she finds suspicious until she gets a good look at his profile and can tell that it’s Killian. Her tense shoulders relax, and she sighs in relief before unceremoniously plopping down in the seat across from him.

“So you stalking me now?” she jokes as blue eyes look up to meet her. “Because I’ve got to say, I’m not sure the coffee I bring you every morning is worth all of the hassle.”

His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear while his eyes crinkle as he gives her a lopsided grin. “I’m not stalking you. I, well, I can’t perform in all of this rain, and I still needed my coffee fix.”

“How’d you even figure out it was this store? You know this is a chain, right?”

He shrugs. “Google, some powers of deduction, and a whole lot of luck.”“Well color me impressed Mystery Musical Man.”

Killian barks out a laugh, loud enough that people turn to look at him. “I’m sorry. What did you just call me?”

Heat rises in her cheeks while the rain pours down outside. She’s dramatic, but she kind of wishes she could run away with the rain right now. “Um, nothing.”

“No, no,” Killian teases, leaning over the table and waggling his eyebrows while flashing her another smile, amusement stretched across all of his features, “you called me Mystery Musical Man. Swan, I didn’t know you had a nickname for me.”

“Yeah, well, I went a few months not knowing who you were. What was I supposed to do?”

“Ask me my name.”

“I did…eventually.” He smiles before sliding her coffee over to her, and she accepts it before taking a sip, the liquid cool enough that she knows he’s been here awhile. “So, um, can I ask you a question? And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Sure, love, but I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t tell you unless you’re about to ask me some deep, personal secret like if I’ve ever dyed my hair.”

She snorts into her drink, shaking her head back and forth. “No, no. I’d never ask such a deeply personal question, but I do, um, what the hell is it that you do for a living?”

His brows furrow, and he clicks his teeth. “Didn’t we talk about this already? I’m a musician.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but do you do anything else besides performing before eight in the morning? I know this is rude, but I’m just…curious.”

“Tis not rude. What someone does for a living is basic conversation. But seriously, no. I’m a musician, and I do play more than the mornings. That’s honestly just for fun.”

“So where do you play? I’d love to come see you.” He raises his eyebrows, salaciously smirking at her in a way that makes her cheeks heat again. Is she just going to word vomit everything today? “To see you play. I’d love to see you play.”

“I know what you meant, love. I, um, I haven’t had many gigs lately, but I am playing next Friday night if you’d like to come.”

“Really? Where?”

Killian’s jaw ticks and his eyes look up at the ceiling like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Has she pushed too far? Is she making him uncomfortable? But then again, he told her he’d like for her to come.

“Tell you what, love, I’m going to get you some tickets for you and a friend, and the address will be on them. Does that work for you?”

“It makes you seem like the definition of Mystery Musical Man.”

“Yeah, well, that’s apparently who I am.”

They talk a little more before he walks with her to work, bypassing his regular playing spot and taking her right to the office. She doesn’t know what to say when they’re leaving, but Killian figures that out for her, leaning in and brushing a kiss against her cheek that lights her entire body on fire.

“So how exactly did you score these tickets?” Ruby questions as they walk into Madison Square Garden, people milling around in every direction and making it difficult to find their seats.

“You know the street performer who I bring coffee to?”

“Your Mystery Musical Man?”

“That’s the one.”

“Shit,” Ruby whistles as they find their way into a roped off section, only a few other people in their seats there. “He got you these? How?”

She shrugs, leaning closer to Ruby as the opening act for the White Sails sets up. “I’ve got no clue. He said that he’s performing, and I about flipped out when he gave me the tickets this morning and saw where they were. But I don’t know who the White Sails are, and honestly, I think he’s probably a guitarist for their opening act or something.”

“Do you think he was asking you on a date when he gave you these? Are you sure he’s even performing?”

“He told me to bring a friend so no, and he definitely said he was performing.”

“Huh. Curious. But hey, we get a free night out, so let’s go with it.”

The opening act is pretty good, someone she’s also never heard of, but that’s pretty much par for the course tonight. And Killian is most definitely not up there, so her confusion continues to grow while she tries to figure out what’s going on. Maybe she should have been more direct in her questioning. She’s never that wishy washy at work or with anyone else, but she never wanted to accidentally insult Killian in questioning his job when he may not have one. But he can get her nice seats to a concert in Madison Square Garden, so now she’s really confused.

And she also really wishes he was here so she could talk to him. She barely got to this morning, and they weren’t able to talk about the cliffhanger on The Good Place last night.

The opening act eventually finishes, and instruments on the stage are interchanged before several men, each of them in head to toe black, walk out on stage to the sound of cheers and wolf whistles.

And that’s when she sees him, front and center holding a different guitar with his hair bare of a baseball cap and a presence that’s totally different than the one he usually has while they’re talking on the street.

“Holy shit.”

“I know, right?” Ruby agrees, yelling over the crowd into her ear, “they’re hot.”

“No, Rubes, that’s him.”

“That’s who?”

“The singer, the guy up front.” She points up to him as he fiddles with the tuning of his guitars, “that’s Mystery Musical Man.”

“Holy shit.”

“Hello, everybody,” he begins, the familiar voice booming through the microphone, “I’m so glad you all can be here tonight. I know it’s been awhile since we performed, but it took a bit to get some inspiration for our new songs, though I finally found some lately. So I thank you for being patient with us. I’m Killian Jones, and we are The White Sails.”

Yeah, she needs to sit down or be pinched (or punched really) because all of the coffee has obviously destroyed her brain cells.

She and Ruby make their way backstage after what is a frankly incredible show, and while her brain managed to chill itself out about halfway through the concert, she’s still freaking out because she just doesn’t understand. Why would someone who performs in Madison Square Garden also perform on the sidewalk in Murray Hill? He said it was just for fun but still. And why does no one but her really notice him? Sometimes there’s a crowd, but it just…it doesn’t make any sense.

And she’s still waiting to wake up from whatever kind of dream this is.

But then Killian walks out of a backroom in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a smile on his face entirely focused on her. He steps toward her, his hand scratching behind his ear, before he’s standing directly in front of her.

She doesn’t know what to say, so she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry I didn’t buy you a coffee.”

He shrugs while he laughs, his lips ticking up on one side. “That’s okay, love. I think maybe you can have a pass this time.” He leans forward and wraps his arms around her, embracing her. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she pulls back, nodding her head and smiling, “that was incredible. You’re incredible. I’m just entirely confused.”

Ruby coughs behind her, and she’s brought out of her confusion and disbelief and a little bit (a lot) of a crush that’s been developing for weeks now. “And this is Ruby Lucas.”

“Nice to meet you, Mystery Musical Man. I came with to make sure my girl wasn’t going to get murdered tonight.”

“Totally understandable,” Killian laughs, shaking Ruby’s hand. “That’s why there were two tickets. To prevent the murder, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupts, shaking her head back and forth, “I just have a lot of questions.”

“Well, Swan, maybe I have some answers. Do you – ” he looks behind him where someone is calling his name “ – can you and Ruby wait here while I do a bit of quick business?”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Killian jogs off, running over to whoever was calling him, and she and Ruby sit down on a bench behind them. Ruby fiddles with her phone while Emma tries to think through everything, connecting the nice, normal guy she’s come to really like with the man she saw up on stage commanding thousands of people with his voice. He’s still Killian, that much she knows, and when he said he was a musician, he definitely wasn’t lying. She kind of just thought he performed in bars.

“So according to Wikipedia, your new boyfriend is thirty-four, is from London, and he’s been playing the guitar since he was twelve.”

“I knew all of that, and he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s going to be.”

“Ruby.”

“Listen, Ems,” Ruby commands, hitting her in the shoulder, “out of the kindness of your heart you have been buying this man coffee and talking to him every day for months because you thought he was a struggling artist and really appreciated him as a musician and as a person. You like him. He likes you. What he does for a living doesn’t matter. It’s cool as hell, don’t lie to yourself, but it doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I say you take life as it comes to you, and you should go for what you want.”

So she does.

As soon as Killian comes back into view, she walks toward him with a purpose in her step, and before he can say anything, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. He takes a moment to kiss her back, but when he does, it’s soft and slow, his lips caressing hers while his hands thread into his hair and hers do the same. His whiskers are rough against her chin, and right before she pulls back, he growls, something that nearly makes her keep going as if she doesn’t need air.

But she does, would die without it, and pulls back, putting some space between their lips while their foreheads rest together.

“So the whole being in a band thing really did it for you, huh?”

“No,” she promises, quickly brushing her lips against his again, “I don’t care about that. It’s awesome, but I don’t care.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. All I really want is to buy you a coffee.”

Killian laughs against her lips, the vibrations moving through her. “You know what, Swan? I think I can buy this time.”

She and Killian go get coffee two days later. Killian buys despite her protests, but that’s okay. She buys the next time they go. And it goes on like that for weeks and then months and eventually years. As time goes on, they stop going out to buy coffee. Instead they get their caffeine fixes in their home, and she has several White Sails albums dedicated to her that she listens to on her way to work. It’s not quite the same as getting a live performance right outside the office, but she thinks she may like it better this way.

Actually, she knows that she does. She can get a live performance at home.

[oliviasaurrrr]

He’s so little and precious

There’s a special place carved out in my heart for teddy boy johnny…

he’s kept in a heart shaped locket in my mind like he’s my forbidden lover I can’t tell my parents about