#literally popped her head up and glowered before tucking back up into a ball

[qvietspvce]

i wasn't prepared for the look of absolute scorn and disdain levelled at me by dolly then for daring to crunch down on my crisps

[halfblood-fiend]

Every Single Star - Dragon Age: Origins, Cousland x Alistair

Written for Blu’s Discord Secret Santa, here is the first half of my gift for @mothmanaintshit. Thanks for your patience while I do it this way because it totally got away from me but I’m thinking that it’ll be super worth the wait because I am very proud of this whole thing! :D

So here’s my first coffee shop AND college AU, just for Axel with their Warden Cousland, Delilah, and the best ball of awkward, Alistair. <3

Words: 8,257 (big yikes)

Rating: General Audiences

Warning(s): light cursing

Read it on AO3

Ferelden’s capital, Denerim, seemed to always be awake and bustling, which was why the silver and blue light-up sign emblazoned with a griffon and announcing their space as The Grey Warden Coffee Roasters never turned off. Must’ve been a rule here, to appear to never need sleep. The line out the door most mornings implied this rule applied to people as well. They all crammed themselves into the cozy shop, certainly following the smell of brewing coffee more than the desire to bask in “the glory” of the fraying Warden memorabilia hanging on the dark walls. Duncan was proud of “his brand” though, so it stayed, no matter how many sneezing fits Alistair had from the dust.

The commuters rush and the first pinkish lights of dawn had just about died down in favor of a full grey sunrise before the next wave of morning-time ghouls lumbered their way into the café. Instead of the existential dread of a long, slow life in the office, these ones carried with them the crisp air of the first day of autumn. This rush was all new notebooks and shuffling papers and the strangely satisfying sound of polyester backpack straps being anxiously shifted on shoulders as folks rooted around in the bottom of them for Sovereigns.

Alistair and Duncan helped all these idiots get their mornings in some semblance of order before their first classes of the term at the University of Ferelden: Denerim, conveniently just down the street.

The glass doors banged open, the silver bell overhead ringing like mad, a sharp gust of biting wind swirling leaves across the floor. Alistair paused from frantically writing on a black insulated paper cup in a squeaky silver pen and saw her.

A small woman with blonde hair, a thick blue scarf the shade of denim and a cream-colored sweater stood there wrestling the door closed. Her scarf slipped from her flushed, wind-bitten cheeks as she yanked on the handle, the tousled top of her short-cropped hair whipping around her head. She panted and pushed, her pointed face straining until the door closed with a snap and she turned, murmuring a short apology to the onlooking line of patrons. Alistair hardly realized he was staring with a slacked jaw until the elf in front of him cleared their throat and asked how much for the Caramel Griffon Steamer in a voice that told him that this wasn’t the first time they’d asked.

“Sorry, I—? What size will that be?”

They looked at him doubtfully but replied, “Small. The Genlock. It’s literally the one in your hand you were just writing on.”

Alistair flushed hard and coughed. “Oh! Right!” As he pressed the buttons on the register, his gaze wandered towards the back of the line where the woman fell in with the rest, but now that the door had been righted and the wind calmed down, she’d disappeared into the jumble of people. He tamped down the strange disappointment that swelled in his chest as he took the elf’s money and dumped it into the register’s drawer.

The line moved steadily enough, but impatience started coloring his voice with each new customer that wasn’t the Door-Wrestling-Woman. Every once in a while, he would catch a glimpse of her. A cream-sweater-clad elbow, a flash of that scarf or the peeking toe of her shoes. She wore tan boots with a flat heel, skinny jeans neatly tucked into the knitted tops. Alistair amused himself by deciding that meant she was practical, maybe even economical, as though he was some sort of detective from a bad mystery novel. He knew that in reality, those random details meant very little, but it just felt so important to know something—anything—about her. And why that was, was beyond him.

He was internally interpreting the symbolic meaning of wearing a denim-colored scarf and blue denim jeans at the same time when the next person in line stepped forward and made him do a double take.

He had to be the nastiest, most sour-looking man Alistair had ever seen—and he had seen so many people in his time working here. He recalled to his mind every negative interaction to date; every upset PTA parent complaining about the consistency of their latte’s foam and every harried businessman with neckties so tight their purple faces looked like they would pop clean off after Alistair told them they were out of pumpkin spice syrup. He put them all together as one person and this man still managed to look nastier. Something about his long black hair or his piercing blue eyes or the vicious glower that settled just beneath his stern features made Alistair’s guts wilt and curl into themselves like paper in a fire. He looked to be the physical manifestation of every bad thing that ever happened in Alistair’s life thus far, and when his thin lips attempted a brief but grim mockery of a smile, Alistair gripped the counter behind the register to keep from jumping backwards.

Thank the Maker that the expression slid from the man’s face almost as soon as it appeared, as though it pained him to make the muscles in his mouth do that for even an instant.

Alistair adopted the most chipper tone he could manage in light of his desire to dart into the back room away from this man. “Er-Hello, ser. What can I- erm- get started for you today?”

The man’s eyes flicked upwards to the menu as though he hadn’t just spent the last 20 or so minutes waiting with nothing else to do but read the carefully written chalk letters. He frowned. “Do you have just plain coffee in this Maker-damned place?”

Movement from behind him caught Alistair’s eye and the flash of blonde hair and cream sweater grabbed his attention. The Door-Wrestling-Woman’s head snapped up from her phone at the man’s gruff voice and recognition sparked in her eyes. Then horror. She turned away from him in order to pull her green canvas messenger bag in front of her, hold the flap up between their line of sight and begin rummaging around in the bottom of it. Alistair’s brows furrowed at her. The man started to turn to look when Alistair realized that was probably the last thing she wanted and cleared his throat to get his attention back.

“Uhm, yes. We have several signature blends and I’d be happy to recommend some to you. Wha-what are you looking for to satisfy that palate of yours, hmm? Any favorite tastes or flaaaa-vors I should know about?”

Scowling, the man replied, “No. I just need the caffeine and this silly little place happened to be on the way to the university.”

“Ah, so, on your way to school, I see—”

“No small talk. I’m not interested.”

“Oooohkay,” Alistair’s mouth snapped shut. The Door-Wrestling-Woman lowered the flap of her bag a few inches and his eyes found hers. He was delighted to note the scrunched-up touch of amusement in the corners of her eyes.

When the man spoke, she disappeared behind the bag again. “Give me whichever one has the most caffeine and be done with it.”

“Ah. That’d be our Darkspawn Roast! Excellent blend, ser, you are truly a man of impeccable taste. I guarantee you will find it absolutely de-blight­-ful and sure to make your eyes wide as a—” The deep scowl was enough to make Alistair abandon all hope of making the Door-Wrestling-Woman laugh and he cleared his throat instead. “Er- what size?”

“Large.”

“Oh, er, sorry about that,” Alistair began. He really didn’t want to have to break any sort of bad news to this man, but at this point he was contractually obligated to. He hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing he did with his short life. “I aaactually can’t do that. See, there is too much caffeine in the Darkspawn Blend and it is actually quite illegal for me to sell that much to you. I’m afraid I can only give it to you in a Hurlock size, not an Ogre.”

The man did indeed appear as agitated as Alistair worried he would, the curl of a sneer appearing at the corners of his mouth. “Illegal?”

“Mmm, yes. Illegal.”

“Why?”

“Caffeine is a drug, technically, as I am sure you are aware, ser. You’re only supposed to have so much a day. We could be shut down if I sell you Darkspawn Blend in an Ogre because it would be too much caffeine.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Ah, yes, well, still a no, ser, I’m afraid. I…I’m sorry. I can still give you the Hurlock size…?” His hand edged for the middle-sized insulated cup and Alistair almost wished that he could just sell him the big one and be done, if for no other reason than to get this man away from him. But Duncan was always watching, even as he busied himself making drinks as Alistair took orders. The last time Alistair had sold an Ogre-sized Darkspawn Blend to someone, Duncan had refused to sell Alistair any of his favorite Mabari Cake Pops for a month.

Frowning, the man squinted up at the menu and then asked, “I can add espresso shots to any drink, can’t I?”

Alistair gulped. Ah, the Shrieks. Not the Shrieks and the Darkspawn Blend? At his age, this man would have a heart attack before he left the parking lot. “…yes?”

“Is there a limit to them? Because of that silly caffeine thing?”

“Yes. Five.”

“And I can add them to this drink, too, if I wanted?”

Alistair’s eyes widened and darted to the left where Duncan was busy at the steamer and shaking up other drinks in the line. He really should ask, he thought to himself, though he knew the answer was, technically, ‘yes.’ Sod it, if the man died, he died and it was his own fault, wasn’t it? Alistair had warned him. “Yes,” he said finally, and the man nodded.

“Good. Then give me that blasted medium size and put five shots in it.”

With a shaking hand, Alistair wrote what he was told and repeated the order back while in a vague state of shock. “Darkspawn Blend, Hurlock, five…Shrieks… Uh. Room for cream?”

“No. And no sugar, either. Black, if you please.”

Alistair nodded, but didn’t understand as he wrote the last bit of order. “Name?”

“Loghain.”

Alistair proceeded to make the most terrifying coffee order he’d ever taken in his life. He couldn’t help but hold his breath when he handed over the drink that probably tasted just like the Blight itself and Loghain walked out of the café. Please don’t die in our parking lot, he thought, I’d have to clean it up. As the door closed behind this Loghain man, he breathed out an audible sigh of relief.

“Awful, isn’t he?”

Blinking a little to clear the haze of horror that had settled over him, Alistair realized with a start that the Door-Wrestling-Woman was now standing right in front of him, unobstructed by either customers nor her own messenger bag.

When faced with her up close, whether she was economical or practical or whatever fanciful things he had made up about her before this moment, he realized only one thing was abundantly obvious: that she was breathtakingly beautiful.

She beamed at him, in all her tiny glory, the wool scarf around her neck the same light blue of her eyes, making them pop and dance. Her hair reflected the light with golden strands. Her slim jaw accentuated the pink feminine curve of her mouth. Her brows, somewhat raised with amusement, furrowed the purple tattoo around her left eye. His greedy gaze took in as much of her as he could, and for the first time in what Duncan might have called ‘forever’, Alistair was stunned into silence.

She misinterpreted that silence, her smile slipping slightly and added, “Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything. He’s like that with everyone.”

Duncan crossed behind him and placed a carrying tray of drinks on the pic-up counter. “Tabris!” he shouted into the room in his deep voice.

And with that, the spell was broken, and Alistair shook himself slightly and returned an uncertain smile. “Oh. You…you know him, do you?”

“Sadly. He’s my Modern Military History professor,” she said with a grimace.

Wrinkling his nose, Alistair echoed, “Modern Milita—what kind of a class is that? What would it even be for? It sounds horribly boring!”

He gulped as the woman’s face hardened at his words. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” she replied cooly, “It’s a part of the Military Series for a Political Science degree.”

Alistair saw his opportunity to fix this interaction with humor and he took it. “Riiight. Political Science. That’s every child’s dream, isn’t it? To grow up and be a corrupt politician. Is there anything better in the world?”

To his horror, she didn’t crack a smile.

“It was my childhood dream to be a politician. Like my parents are now.”

Oh. Well…shit.

“Mmmm,” Alistair hummed and picked up his silver pen to fidget with it. “And, on that note, what can I get for you today? I hear the foot-in-mouth breakfast sandwich is very good this morning. I can make it as an Alistair-special. As you can see, I’m really good at putting them together.”

Blessedly, she did laugh this time and shook her head. The tension in his stomach disappeared immediately and Alistair secretly decided there wasn’t a better sound in the world.

“I mean, you’re kinda right. It’s not a normal thing to want, and you didn’t know…and Professor Mac Tir is the worst…”

“It is quite unfortunate that you have him as your teacher, yes. You have my condolences for that.”

She smiled up at him again and said, “Thanks. He’s brilliant though, even if he is mean.”

Duncan appeared at the register beside them and typed on the keys quickly to log in. He threw a look at Alistair as he called the next customer in line forward that told him that he was bristling not just because he was beardy. You’re supposed to take their orders, Alistair, not chit-chat with them, he practically heard his friend say in his mind. But Alistair pretended not to notice.

She continued, “He just recently published a paper, you know.”

“Oh?”

“And also made it required reading for the class.”

“Oh. So, a total douche, then?”

“A bit. It’s called Philosophical and Theoretical Perspectives on Wartime Justice: The Question of War and Ethics. In case…I dunno, you ever wanna look it up for yourself. It’s good, I’ll admit, but I’ve been staring at it for the last couple of hours because I forgot it was due before our first class. And honestly, I’m getting so sick of thinking about it, so how about some coffee?”

“Coffee! Yes. I do have that, if you would like to buy some!”

Giggling, her eyes briefly roved up to the menu and Alistair took the moment to be relieved that he had successfully navigated out of the hole he’d dug himself into. Good job, Alistair.

“Oh man… there’s a lot of drinks… What would you recommend?”

Wide blue eyes blinked at him, waiting, and he struggled not to get lost in them so he could answer. “Me? I would recommend…hm. The Calling Latte and the Conscrip-uccino are both popular and they’re pretty good. But my personal favorite is probably the Brewed Mother. It’s a pour-over blend of several of our roasts so it’s got all the taste of coffee but is also very sweet and thick and foamy because we use druffalo milk instead of a cow’s.”

“Sure. I’ll try that then!”

“Excellent choice!” Alistair said, double underlining and starring either side of ‘Brewed Mother’ on the cup. “And if you don’t like it, I can give you your money back!” Duncan threw him a dirty look.

But she laughed. “I doubt that’ll be necessary.”

Alistair grabbed the size she wanted (Hurlock), took down her name (Delilah—has there ever been a more beautiful name in all of ever??) and sent her on her way. Once she moved on, Duncan signed off of his register and elbowed him gently in the ribs.

“We’re too busy to make fools of ourselves in front of pretty girls right now. How about staying on task, hmm?”

Alistair rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he assented to the warm and firm grip of Duncan’s hand on his shoulder. He should have known there would have been no hiding anything from Duncan, even busy as they were right now. Knowing the old man, he probably heard everything, too, and was going to grill him about it as soon as the rush died down. Yet even replaying the embarrassing things he just said to Delilah couldn’t dim the warm glow of happiness that breathed life into his chest and spread all the way to his toes with each fluttering beat of his heart.

His gaze kept flickering to her as he took more orders, but her own was glued to her phone. Each time he looked, she would be squinting at the screen or typing furiously with flying thumbs.

That was just as well, probably. A little voice inside urged him to ask her for her number, but how weird would that be? Hey, I know that I just met you and I insulted your life’s goals but I’d love to keep doing so over texts if you give me your number. Worrying his lip between his teeth, Alistair told himself that would never fly. Rom-Com romances didn’t happen in real life in busy coffee shops near universities. Total strangers didn’t have instant connections, no matter how much he believed it to be true. The only connection Delilah had to him was that she was about to drink his favorite coffee, and once it was gone, that was it. No more Alistair the Grey Roaster in her life.

But he wanted so badly to ask her anyway.

So maybe he just should.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Duncan fit a Hurlock-sized cup with a lid, and as he spun it to make sure the lid was fully closed, Alistair spied the silver stars peeking over the cup sleeve. As he turned to take Delilah’s cup to the counter, Alistair wheeled away from the register and plucked it from Duncan’s hand.

“Hey—”

“Switch you!” And without waiting for a response, Alistair marched her cup to the counter and called Delilah’s name.

She looked up and when she saw him, she beamed. And when she beamed at him, a strange shiver of delight rippled through his body and made him grin in return. Like the most wonderful domino effect.

“Your coffee, Future Arl of Denerim.”

Delilah giggled as she took the offered cup. “I’d have my work cut out for me if I pursued that. I’ve got my eyes on a smaller but no less noble prize. Highever will do just fine for me. Though it’ll take just as much work to get there.” She took a sip from her cup and her eyes lit up. “Ooh, this is good! Thanks for the rec. Gotta get to class now. Wish me luck!”

“Me luck,” Alistair said, somewhat breathlessly, earning him a final smile over her shoulder before Delilah disappeared out the door.

As he watched it close behind her, he realized he hadn’t asked for her number after all.

“Alistair! Register!”

Good luck out there, Delilah, he thought, a soft regret constricting his throat. He rapped the counter with his knuckles then returned to the morning mayhem.

Alistair had been wrong. Duncan wasn’t going to tease him later that day. And not that night or the next day or the next. He was beginning to think he was in the clear and Duncan would be cool and never mention Delilah at all… until after the morning rush on Thursday.

Duncan leaned against the counter with the steamer machine and mopped his brow with a handkerchief he produced from the pocket of his grey and blue apron. A few people still milled about at the array of black tables with their headphones on, but at least there was no more line of people and no more orders to fill. It was enough time for them to breathe, for certain, but not enough to relax if the teetering pile of coffee-stained shakers, glass blender jars and measuring cups in the shining metal sink had anything to say about it.

“So,” Duncan began in his baritone, causing Alistair to freeze with his hand inside the baked treats display.

“Soooo….?”

Duncan’s dark eyes bored into his and twinkled with mischief. “Still no sign of the Cousland girl, eh?”

“What?” Alistair’s back snapped straight so quickly that he forgot the sliding glass door he was holding onto and it closed on his wrist. “Ouch!”

Duncan chortled to himself and switched out his handkerchief for a dish towel. He picked up the first dirty serving glass with worn, careful fingers and got to washing. “Why don’t you pick up your jaw and make yourself useful, Alistair. Wipe down the machines while we still can.”

“How…How did you find out her last name?” Alistair asked him. He bent to pick out a clean microfiber towel and Duncan’s favorite all-natural cleaner from a lower cabinet. “And how did you know I was looking for her? I wasn’t, by the way!”

His friend smiled and Alistair heard the low rumble of quiet laughter over the spritz of his spray bottle. Just like Duncan to decide not to answer. But after some washing, he said, “It was easy enough. Her name was Delilah; she said she was a political science major and has wanted to be a politician all her life, like her family is. And she mentioned she wanted to be Arl of Highever. One internet search was all it took to find Delilah Cousland, only daughter of the current Arl of Highever. Even filled in my search bar for me.”

“You searched for a customer?” Alistair gasped, offended for her. Duncan did some socially questionable things sometimes (like take a penniless orphan in and give him a job and a place to stay, for one) but this was low, even for him. “I just can’t believe you would do such a heinous thing. I don’t think I can even look at you!” Alistair moved on to spray the cappuccino machine and made a mental note to search for ‘Delilah Cousland’ on his own computer later. He knew just enough about the current state of the Houses of Nobles, Arls and Teryns to know the Couslands were somebody, but he couldn’t quite recall what they had been known for.

“Oh, good morning, Delilah, welcome back,” Duncan rumbled.

Alistair spun around towards the register and dropped the spray bottle, his hand flying to his hair instead—

—but there was no one there.

The room shook with Duncan’s great, booming laughter.

“Oh, har har, Old Man,” Alistair scolded, flushing as he snatched up his spray bottle from the floor. “What a wonderfully cruel trick to play on your poor employee. Feel good now, do you?”

“Absolutely,” he chuckled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “You were looking for her then. You’ve been sullen and sulking after every morning rush for the last couple of days.”

“No,” Alistair insisted. No way was he letting Duncan get the best of him. Not again. “I do not ‘sulk.’ And I’m not looking for her. I don’t even remember what her name is anymore.”

“Oh, so, I can unbookmark her MyPhylactery page and not tell you her current relationship status.”

“Wait, wait, wait! You found her MyPhylactery page?”

Duncan gave him a satisfied side eye, his bushy black beard betraying the wide toothy smile beneath and nodded.

“And…it wasn’t set to private?”

He shook his head. “It was. I invited her to Bond to our company page.”

“But our company page is just your Phylactery!”

He nodded.

“So now you can see all her information!”

Duncan’s eyes twinkled.

“That was a skeevy thing you did, you know.”

“So, you don’t want to see her Phylactery?” Duncan asked again even though it was clear he already knew the answer. Alistair cursed himself for being so blighted easy to read.

“No, no. I’ll look. But I won’t be happy about it, and I will deny any involvement if she ever finds out. I’ll throw you under the cart-wheels in an instant, Old Man, mark my words.”

His threat was only met with snickers.

Alistair didn’t have to wait long at all before he saw Delilah again. After all the waiting and all the eager searching of faces each morning, he figured it was just his luck that she would reappear now, at the end of his break. The break that he had just spent pouring over the link to MyPhylactery that Duncan had sent him and scrolling over every picture and every life update she had posted in the last five years.

As soon as he saw her wander in, he blushed. He shouldn’t be blushing. It…It was perfectly normal to look someone up after you’d met them! Even though…she’d never actually given him her last name. Nor had she really consented to letting Duncan see her private profile. Because how was she supposed to know that he was bad with tech like some strange youngish-Old Person and didn’t even know how to make a business account on MyPhylactery? Alistair felt that he really shouldn’t know that she had broken up with her boyfriend of four years before moving to Denerim to go to school, and that he was still commenting on every single post that she made. Clearly, he couldn’t let her go. It had to be annoying for her. But Alistair shouldn’t have known that, it was weird.

So he blushed scarlet when Delilah waved at him, and his stomach twisted in guilty knots when she bounced forward to order at the counter. Her bright smile, while still dazzling, didn’t quite melt the ice pounding in his veins. He was sure she could read the guilt in his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked, shifting her bag’s strap from her right shoulder to her left. Her head tilted quizzically. There was genuine worry in her eyes. Alistair might’ve felt touched if he wasn’t too busy feeling ashamed. “You look flushed. Are you sick?”

Alistair tried to speak, failed, cleared his throat and tried again. “’S’just warm back here…is all.”

Every impulse in him screamed to tell her, but what would that even do? It wasn’t a big deal! Was it? If anything, he would look like more of a stalker if he just announced to her that he’d looked her up and found out that her brother, Fergus Cousland, had gotten hired to work as a campaign manager for the incumbent Arl of Amaranthine Rendon Howe, and was slated to become the next Arl once Howe gained the Teyrnship, and then she, Delilah, was promised an internship on the committee (which she was very, very excited and grateful for, a sentiment that earned her 106 likes from all her various Phylactery Bonds).

Oh, Maker, no, he should tell her. He should fess up and beg forgiveness before he accidentally let on that he knows more than he should and loses the possibility of a friendship with this beautiful, wonderful, intelligent—

“Did you hear me?”

He started. “Sorry. What was that?”

Delilah smiled and shook her head at him. “Are you sure you’re not sick? You should go and sit down because you seem really out of it.”

“I’m okay, really,” he replied shakily, lifting a hand to rub out a kink that started forming in the back of his neck from the stress of his own personal disaster.

“Well, if you’re sure… I said that I really liked what you recommended to me last time. So I think I’ll just have another Brewed Mother. But I’ll take it in an Ogre this time.” She patted her bag and sighed, “I’ve got a lotta work to do.”

“Oh, yeah?” Alistair asked somewhat automatically, picking up the large cup and scribbling away. He wrote her name without asking for it and added a star at the end.

Tell her, you idiot. Say something!

“I should—”

“I also said—”

They both spoke at the same time, then they both paused to chuckle awkwardly.

“You can—”

“What were you—”

They shared more uncomfortable titters and Alistair stared at the register keys, willing them to spell out what to do next or to come to life and attack him, or anything really to abate his discomfort. Sweet Maker…

“I-I was just going to say that I had also asked—before, I mean—well, that I didn’t get to catch your name last time. Is all.” Delilah fiddled with the grey and tawny feathers taped to the tip jar. Duncan swore they were real griffon feathers and would encourage people to be more generous with their tips. Alistair was sure they were eagle feathers, which didn’t seem to inspire anyone to give more silvers than they usually would.

Strange thing to ask for, his name, Alistair thought as he glanced down at his apron to double check that his blue nametag was indeed still attached to his chest. It’s right there, after all. But before his brain decided if he should point his badge out to her or not, his mouth was moving, and his name was falling out of it. His whole name.

“It’s Alistair Theirin,” he said, the sounds coming out like a rush of water with no hope of damming it up. His mouth clamped shut so hard that his teeth snapped together and rattled his brain, but he knew the damage was done. Delilah’s face had whipped back up to his and she searched his soul as though she could confirm he was telling the truth if she stared hard enough.

“Theirin?” she echoed in astonishment. “Like the Theirin? Like King Cailan and Maric and—”

Alistair leaned over the register and shushed her more violently than he intended, eyes frantically darting around the coffee house. The only patron now was one dwarf in the corner, and he had on a headset nearly as big as his whole head.

Delilah lowered her voice, but her eyes were still wide. “I-I can’t believe… A Theirin? But then, why are you here?”

Grimacing, Alistair replied, “It’s a long story… One I’d really rather not talk about it, to be honest.”

He expected her to press—the handful of people he’d told over the course of his life often did—but, to her credit, she only nodded. “I’m a Cousland so…so I get it. Kinda. In a not-as-big way, of course, but, yeah… There’s just a lot of expectations to be something, am I right?”

“Right.” Not that you knew the half of it, Alistair thought darkly. Not that being the daughter of a prestigious man repeatedly voted into the House of Arls was really anything when compared to being the bastard son of the late King. But sure. Sure, Delilah “gets it.”

He supposed that he should be grateful. Since she now knew his best kept secret, he felt exactly zero amounts of guilt for knowing what she ate for dinner three nights ago (Antivan Spicy Noodles that looked delicious, 38 likes). No need to fess up about stalking her now. There was no doubt in his mind that she would go home and scour the internet for him now.

“An Ogre-sized Brewed Mother will be five silvers and eleven bits, by the way,” he mumbled.

“Oh! Yeah.”

By the time the coins clinked into the till, Alistair regretted being short and the bitter things he had thought about her. Delilah wandered away more towards the pick-up counter, her phone in her hand, but Alistair found himself speaking anyways.

“It’s not really so bad. The whole…you know, thing. My parents, or whatever.” He rambled while he made her drink and didn’t bother looking up to check if she was even listening. Alistair decided he didn’t really want to know. “I kinda stopped paying attention to it, really. Some people have cared a lot about my parentage, but none of them were my, you know, actual parents, so, what’s the point? I try not to let it bother me.” Why was he saying this to someone he’d only met once before? Just because he was guilty about stalking her social media? Or because there was a slight chance that he could finally get these things that nagged him in the dead of night off his chest? “I figure if they don’t care about me, I shouldn’t care about them. I’m happy to just be…me, you know? I’m just Alistair. That idiot Grey Roaster who talks too much and… aaaaand spills secrets to total strangers. That’s who I am. That’s what I’m here for. Saving the world one Brewed Mother at a time.” He snapped the plastic lid on over the lip of the cup and tried to pick it up by the top to make sure it was on properly. When he was sure, he spun around to slide her drink over the counter and found himself face to face with Delilah.

She had been listening, and if he didn’t know any better, she looked…sad. Not pitying, not disdainful, not any of the kinds of emotions he had come to expect from people when they learned of his very own Tragic Backstory, just…a little moved. A little mournful. Her cool fingers brushed against his own as she took the coffee from him without breaking their locked gaze.

“I understand,” Delilah murmured after a moment. “And… and I’m happy that you’re you too, Alistair.”

He blinked. His mind wiped blank. He had no idea what to say to that. She was…happy for him? No one had ever been happy that he had abandoned his old life before. Even Duncan tried to push him to do something more with himself every now and again. Delilah’s support, even if she didn’t know it, meant more than any words he could think of to describe it. So, he didn’t say anything.

After what felt like several Ages smushed together all at once, Delilah bit her lip and turned away. He watched her disappear out the door again in stunned silence.

She started coming in a lot more often after that. So often, in fact, that Alistair was starting to piece together her schedule. Totally on accident of course, because he had refused to look at her MyPhylactery again until she wanted to send him a Bond. If she ever even wanted to. If they even got to that point.

Delilah came in most Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, and some Thursday afternoons. She greeted him each time with a “Hey, Just-Alistair!”, chatted amicably until her drink was ready, and then she was off to class. She tried a few different things off the menu, but more often than not, she ordered a Brewed Mother; a fact that made a tiny flame of happiness light up in Alistair every time. She never mentioned his heritage again.

On a dull autumn Thursday when the grey clouds that always hung low over Ferelden seemed particularly thick and heavy, the bell over the door tinkled and Alistair looked up from his sweeping to find Delilah easing her way in with an armful of large books with faded leather covers.

“Do you need help?” Alistair asked, moving to lean his broom against the counter but Delilah answered faster.

“Nope! I’m good!” She lugged them to a table near the register and dropped them rather unceremoniously with a loud bang that echoed off the glass windows. “Oops, sorry.” She glanced around apologetically and when she realized there was no one else in the shop, she shrugged.

Alistair shook his head and laughed at her. She must have been much stronger than her height let on, he realized. He respected a woman that could bench press her weight in books. “The usual?” he asked, already reaching for a Hurlock cup and writing her name on it with a flourish. And a star. Always a star.

She appeared to consider for a second as she divided up her books into piles over the entire surface of the table and then answered, “Yes. Get me that Brewed Mother. I have a midterm paper to write!”

“Midterms?” Alistair asked in shock. He did the math quickly in his head. There was no way it was that far along in the semester already. “Isn’t it still too early for that?”

“It is,” she agreed, pulling her laptop case and several notebooks from her bag. “Dr. Mac Tir is notoriously picky about papers. He’s got a strict grading scale so he hands out prompts in the first week so that we can start our papers as soon as possible. He’s already given us our final too! Can you believe that??”

Shrugging, Alistair filled her cup with milk from the carton marked ‘druffalo’, set it back in the mini fridge and kicked the door closed. Even only meeting the dreaded Loghain once, Delilah’s story checked out in his mind. “Wish I could say no, but just that five-minute conversation I had with him took 10 years off my life.”

Delilah sniggered as he moved on to the steamer. “You sure all the coffee you drink while working here isn’t what’s responsible for that?”

Alistair allowed himself a smile for a brief moment before swallowing it and turning around to find the plastic lids. He worked hard to keep his face neutral and controlled. “Oh, I don’t like coffee.”

As predicted, Delilah was taken aback, her blue eyes bugging a little. Alistair bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “You…work at a coffee house. At The Grey Warden Coffee Roasters! It’s only the most famous international chain of cafés!”

Alistair let his own eyes go wide and pretended to be just as shocked. If he didn’t have to clean the mess up himself, he might have dropped her coffee. For comedic effect, of course. “What? I do??”

Her eyes narrowed at him and he suspected she was catching on, but Duncan appeared from the back room carrying a large box and spoke before either of them could.

“You won’t for long, Alistair, if you don’t charge her and help the other customers in line,” he growled as he passed by.

“Yes’ser, Café Commander Duncan, ser!”

His friend rolled his eyes and pulled a box cutter from his apron instead of replying.

Dancing back towards the register, Alistair checked that the lid was tight and handed it over. His heart skipped a beat when her fingers grazed his. He grinned. “One Brewed Mother for one brood…y…mother, you know, that made a lot more sense in my head until I said it.”

Delilah held out her handful of coins in her palm, but he waved her away.

“Eh, don’t worry about it. What’s one on the house for my favorite customer?” he told her with a wide dreamy smile, leaning on the counter to cup his chin in his hand.

“Alistair…”

“Did I ever mention to you how astute Duncan’s hearing is? I think it’s something to do with being Riviani. You know, on second thought, I will take those silvers, if it’s all the same to you…”

Handing them over and laughing, Delilah shook her head at him and warned, “Keep going on like this and you’ll get fired. Then what will you do?”

“Pft! Me? Fired?” Alistair shook his head and shot her what he hoped was a cocky grin. “Nah, Duncan needs me. I don’t think he’d know how to run the shop by himself, at this point. He makes me do all the work, you know.”

Duncan kicked at Alistair’s heels as he walked back to the store room with the empty box.

All customers taken care of, Alistair was free to bother his favorite patron, still bent as she was over her books, occasionally pausing to type something on her laptop. He grabbed the broom and unlatched the hook holding the counter between the registers in place in order to pretend to sweep around Delilah’s table.

“You solve that great mystery of wartime ethics yet?”

Delilah barked a short laugh and leaned back in her chair to look up at him. She put her arms over her head and stretched. Alistair realized too late that it gave him a clear angle down her shirt. Blushing, he averted his eyes and worked very intently on an invisible speck of dust on the floor that refused to be swept up. “No, have you?” he heard her reply.

“Oh, er, that old thing? Yeah. I solved that ages ago. I’m on to the secret of eternal youth now.”

When she laughed and her eyes met his, Alistair all but melted. He blushed again, but this time for a different reason. For a somersaulting stomach filled with butterflies sort of reason.

“Great! So you don’t mind writing my midterm paper for me, right?”

“Well, isn’t that plagiarism, dear Delilah?”

She shrugged and replied seriously, “At this point? Not if anybody knew about it.”

Alistair chewed his lip. He saw his moment, plain as day right there in front of him. I would think about writing that paper for you if you gave me your number. No, no. That came off too predatory. Maybe we can work out the details of the midterm exchange over dinner? No, too serious. Damn. The opportunity was there, he could sense it, but for the life of him, his brain wouldn’t make that last connection towards the perfect way to ask. And if he dawdled too long, the knowledge that he’d lose his chance looked over him like a dark cloud.

Sod it, man, speak.

“I-uhmmm.”

Light blue eyes turned up to his and Alistair lost track of what he was doing. He had a vague thought that maybe he would faint.

“I-I-I could, er, write it for you. Er, try to. Aaaaand we-we could, um. We could, um…”

Delilah waited patiently, expectantly, her face open. A small smile settled on her lips, and Alistair willed himself not to glance at them. Don’t you dare imagine kissing them. Don’t think about how soft they would be or how pleasant of a thing kissing Delilah would be. Don’t… no, don’t think about it.

You thought about it.

Alistair tried to clear his throat and made an awful noise that sounded more like a bleating ram than anything human. Delilah politely pretended not to notice.

“W-we could- er, I could bring it to you if we were somewhere else. If we met somewhere else, I mean. Like for coffee, or…”

Sweet Maker, you absolute dunce, why coffee, of all things—you work in a coffee shop, for crying out loud!

A touch of color began rising in her cheeks. “You mean… you would write my paper for me if we went on a date?”

Alistair started to nod but then her words washed over him. “N-no! I mean, the paper was…more of an excuse, really, I-I don’t—”

“Oh, so… just a date then?”

Alistair’s knees buckled and he didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

The smile spread across her face and her eyes lit up and danced the same way they had when she had first tried his favorite drink. These were good signs, weren’t they? No one glowed like that and then shot a man down. Not that he’d had enough experience to know but… but, Maker, he hoped. What he did know was that someone like him didn’t deserve to bask in her radiating warmth. Alistair drunk from her anyway, letting all the lovely facets of her fill him and make him light. Her kindness, the way she laughed, the brightness of her, it was everything to him. And fumbling and awkward as he was, Delilah was going to say ‘yes’ to him. They were going to make plans and go on a date and maybe she was going to choose to be with him. Him, of all people. Just-Alistair and Delilah Cousland.

The door to the café banged open and both Alistair and Delilah leapt out of their skins. Her wide eyes fixed on the door before he could turn and she uttered a quick squeak of alarm, scrambling to get back to work on her laptop. Alistair’s brain was sluggish in making connections, but the voice that spoke nailed him to the floor.

“Ah. If it isn’t the youngest Cousland,” Loghain drawled, his footsteps drawing nearer to the table. Like flipping a switch, Alistair’s mood changed as ice shot through his veins. If he didn’t know any better, he would say the temperature in the shop just dropped several degrees, even after the door closed to the chilly outside.

He didn’t want to turn and face the last person he wanted to see during a conversation he’d been working up to for weeks, so Alistair closed his eyes and shouted every curse in every language he knew in his head.

Loghain swooped in on Delilah like a hawk on its prey, his shrewd eyes roving over the books on the table. Even his head turned like a bird’s to better read each gilded title. “I take it you’re in need of subpar coffee in order to finalize your midterm paper. I needn’t remind you that you have little over two weeks to turn it in.”

Scoffing, Alistair echoed, “Subpar coffee?” as though he’d never been privy to a more grievous insult to his person before.

The other man looked up at him as though noticing Alistair’s existence for the first time. “Don’t you have something else you should be doing besides eavesdropping, boy? Sweeping, perhaps. Or, better yet, making my coffee. Same as last time: darkest roast with as many espresso shots as you can give me, black, no sugar.”

There wasn’t really anything else for it. Alistair knocked the bristles of the broom against his boots for a second, debating saying something else, but Loghain wasn’t paying him any mind anymore. He’d make Loghain’s coffee. And if Duncan wasn’t looking, maybe he’d spit in it too. Wouldn’t that be nice?

As he stalked away, Alistair heard Delilah stammer a response he couldn’t understand over his heartbeat in his ears, but he did catch Loghain’s reply.

The dark-haired man grunted. “I hope so. If it’s anything like your brother’s papers, I highly doubt it shall be anywhere near “ready to go” without more serious work. But given your source material, I’m willing to be open to the possibility of being surprised. We shall see.”

“Ser,” Alistair barked, drawing Loghain’s raptor gaze from Delilah. “Six silvers and fourty-eight bits. For your subpar coffee.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up and Loghain reached into his pocket to pull out the coins. He crossed to the register. “So, you’re always mouthy, I see—” his eyes flicked to the nametag and then back to his face, “—Alistair. You really shouldn’t speak to your clientele that way. It discourages them from returning.”

Alistair’s face hardened. He didn’t know what it was but something about this man made his whole body shake with anger. He hadn’t felt this much hatred since he was dumped at the doorstep of a Chantry boarding school by a family that didn’t want him. He was aware his voice would shake if he wasn’t careful, and Alistair wanted to be sure nothing was open to Loghain’s interpretation. Whether Duncan would approve or not, Alistair decided right then and there that this man was unwelcome in his store. “That is the idea. The only clientele I want, are the ones who appreciate my work. If you think it’s so subpar, I suggest you don’t come back. Ser.”

“I might just heed your suggestion. But then…perhaps this swill will grow on me, and I’ll come by more often.”

“Pray it doesn’t. The doors are locked, as far as you’re concerned.”

Loghain gave Alistair something impossibly close to a wry smile and handed over his coins. With one hand, Alistair dumped them into the till without counting and with the other he passed Loghain his disgusting coffee.

“Good lad,” Loghain said softly. His eyes bored into Alistair’s, but Alistair refused to look away. He didn’t even dare blink. He believed with all his soul that blinking would mean weakness. “You remind me of someone I used to know. From a long time ago.” He smirked and raised the cup to his lips. Alistair watched the steam curl from the small opening in his peripherals. He knew good and well that was fresh coffee from the pot and he had dumped it into Loghain’s cup scalding, but the man drank it anyway. A long drag of it. “Wonder why that could be,” he murmured.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

With a little shrug, Loghain turned away and Alistair all but sagged onto the counter.

“Good day, Delilah, and good luck,” Loghain said to her as he passed her table and headed out the door.

 Merry Christmas, Axel!!    ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ヽ(´ ▽ ` )ﾉ  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

I’ll have part 2 ASAP!!!

[quarterfromcanon]

Unexpected

Heather & Valencia - Femslash February - Day 12 - Surprise [3,003 words]

Heather was not in the mood for company. Thankfully, the usual Home Base crowd at that hour of night was not a chatty bunch. Most just caught her eye when they wanted a refill. At least it eliminated the need for small talk. Weekend time slots were already something Heather preferred to avoid, but filling in for Greg while he and Rebecca attended Jayma Chan’s wedding left her feeling especially averse to the social requirements of customer service. 

Heather was cleaning glasses when she heard the determined clack of heels approaching where she stood. She couldn’t really say who she’d expected when she turned around, but it certainly wasn’t Valencia Perez in a strapless pink gown.

“I want a drink.”

“People who come in here usually do.” Heather set a tumbler aside and draped the rag over her shoulder. “So, like, a cocktail? Martini? Mimosa?”

Valencia shook her head, which made her disheveled hair slip further from the grip of the metal clasp intended to hold the style in place. “Something straight out of the bottle.” 

“Okay, that’s a start. Vodka, brandy, whiskey --”

“Sure. That sounds fine.”

“Whiskey?” Heather verified. “Do you want scotch, Irish, bourbon, or rye? We don’t have Tennessee or Japanese.”

“Why are there so many choices?” Valencia impatiently smacked her hands against the bar. “I just need to get hammered. Surprise me.”

“I’ll get you bourbon.” Heather tucked her lower lip into her mouth, prematurely dreading the response she might get to the next thing she had to say. “How much?”

Valencia spread the thumb and forefinger of her left hand as far as they could go. “I’m thinking about this much. Maybe times two.”

“Whoa, there. You really don’t drink, do you?” 

“Not usually, no.”

Heather stretched across the bar and adjusted the measurement between Valencia’s fingertips with the pressure from her own, pushing lightly until they were one finger-width apart. “Let’s start with about... that much. See how it goes.”

Valencia let her hand drop. “That works.”

Heather prepared the order and returned a few seconds later. Valencia slid a bill forward and set her clutch purse beside the drink. “Keep the change.” She took the first sip and leaned back in surprise. “Interesting. Different from what I thought it would be. Is that nutmeg?”

Heather’s shoulders lifted. “It might have similar flavor notes. People don’t usually ask about that stuff. It’s called Angel’s Envy.”

Valencia shrugged disinterestedly and took another drink. 

“Cool. Enjoy.” Heather went back to the used dishes.

Valencia attempted to hike herself onto a stool, but the dress was too restrictive. She settled for a chair instead and kicked out her legs, crossing them at the ankle.

Not even five minutes later, Heather heard her voice again.

“Men suck.”

Heather rolled her eyes. She focused her attention on the present task and did not engage with the conversation starter. 

Valencia glowered at some nearby barflies who were studying her. “That means you, too. Turn around.”

Heather’s lips twitched at the exchange she heard but did not see. Despite her effort to ignore Valencia’s outbursts, Heather internally conceded that she was curious what Josh did now. Recent observations suggested that it likely had something to do with a proposal or, rather, a lack thereof. Though she had her suspicions, Heather had no intention of voicing them. She was on the outskirts of the group’s interpersonal drama, and she intended to keep it that way. 

“Can I get another?”

Heather dried off her hands and grabbed the bottle. She poured Valencia a second serving, double the measure of the first. While she did so, Heather kept her eyes averted to deter additional interaction. 

“I know you, don’t I?” Valencia asked. The inquiry sounded semi-rhetorical as if she knew full-well this was not their first encounter, and yet it was clear that she expected verbal acknowledgement. 

Goddamnit.

“Kind of,” Heather replied. “We met on that super dramatic party bus ride and then hung out at the beach? Also, I’m in here when you pick up your little sister, so, there’s that.”

“Right!” Valencia feigned a light bulb recognition. She pointed at her and nodded. “Greg’s date. Sporty. Lots of bracelets.”

“I mean, I’m wearing the same accessories right now so I don’t know if that really counts in your favor, but yeah. That was me.”

“Wait, did he throw you over for Rebecca?” Valencia tried to move into Heather’s line of sight as the latter went about her routine procedures. “I saw them tonight at the reception, on the other side of the room. I didn’t say hello, obviously. But did he?”

Heather busied herself with a stack of utensils.

Valencia gasped. “He did!” She angled against the bar and gripped the far side. “Hold on. You called her ‘neighbor’ before, didn’t you?” She popped onto her tiptoes, eyes wide. “Were you friends?”

Heather stopped what she was doing, crossed her arms, and finally looked at Valencia. “We still are. I wasn’t gonna let some CW-style love triangle change that.”

“How can you forgive her after what she’s done?” Valencia demanded incredulously. “She completely betrayed your trust and tried to steal Greg when she knew you two were together!”

Heather’s brow furrowed. The undercurrent of projection was evident, but she couldn’t exactly say that Valencia was incorrect either way. She sighed and tossed her towel beside the register. “I was upfront with her that it hurt my feelings when I first found out but, like, at the same time, she couldn’t really steal him from me if he didn’t wanna go, y’know?” Heather gave Valencia a meaningful look. “I had to deal with that. I had to accept that he didn’t have strong enough feelings for me to make him want to stick around.”

A rapid succession of emotions flickered across Valencia’s face. One instant, she appeared geared up for an argument. The next, she deflated and her shoulders sagged wearily.

“You’re right,” Valencia murmured. “That was the bigger problem.” She dropped back onto her feet and hiked the top of her dress more securely into place. Valencia drank and put it down with a rough thunk. “I called him on that tonight. He was never going to truly commit to our relationship.”

Heather edged away and purposely wiped down flat surfaces in the opposite direction from where Valencia stood. “Yeah, I feel like this isn’t about me, so I’m just gonna--”

Valencia rotated her glass between her hands and continued speaking, undeterred. “I don’t see how you’re supposed to fix a thing like that. If you’re giving him your perfect body, the perfect relationship, the perfect future right on the horizon -- what more could he want? What part of drinking gross tapioca balls with a backstabbing little lawyer from out-of-town fulfilled a need of his that wasn’t being met?”

“Maybe he needed someone who listened to him?” Heather suggested pointedly. “Someone who wasn’t gonna talk over him or say something judgy?”

Valencia drew up short and gaped at her. “Did he talk to you? Did he tell you that’s what was wrong with me?”

Heather wrinkled her nose. “What? No. I don’t really know the guy that well.”

Valencia shook her head in bewilderment. “It’s just that he said almost that exact thing right before we broke up. That I never listen to him.”

“Huh. What a weird coincidence.”

Valencia lifted her gaze to Heather’s face with shame. “Am I really that awful?”

Heather’s features softened. “There were some major communication issues between you two, but it wasn’t all coming from one side.” She drew closer to stand across from Valencia again. “Most of my information is secondhand, so I might not be the person to ask, but I always felt like you and Josh were not on the same wavelength, like, at all. You clearly had a life you were trying to build for yourself and Josh was like this buff, clueless puppy who kept running around the neighborhood. He was supposed to fit into your big picture, but he didn’t. Or didn’t want to.”

Valencia threw back the remainder of her second round. 

Heather’s mouth twisted at the corner. “Sorry. I kinda suck at sugarcoating. I was just giving you an outside perspective.”

“It’s okay.” Valencia waved the apology aside. “I’m the one who asked you. And you’re not wrong. It just...”

“It sucks,” Heather supplied.

Valencia’s laugh carried the hint of a sob. “Yes, it does. Fifteen years gone down the drain.” She reached reflexively for her glass but realized it was empty. 

The majority of the patrons had wandered toward the parking lot during the course of their conversation. Heather left the bar and tidied the vacated stations.

“Better fifteen years than the rest of your life.”

The words washed over Valencia and she dropped her head to rest on her arms. “I don’t know what life has left for me without this.”

Heather awkwardly patted the back of Valencia’s dress as she crossed behind her. “Hang in there... pal... You’ll get through it.”

“I guess so.” Valencia stared into the middle distance with bleak uncertainty. “But I have no clue where to begin.”

“Well, wherever you start, it can’t be with our alcohol,” Heather told her. She jerked her head in the direction of the clock. “We’re past last call.”

The only other customer, a man in a corner booth, tossed down a few dollars beside his empty bottle and departed. Valencia cast a look around the vacant room and landed on something fixed to the wall. 

“Do you have darts?”

Heather gathered the money the man left behind and wiped down his table. “I know I literally did that exact thing after my breakup, so it makes me a hypocrite, but you really don’t wanna be throwing pointy objects right now. Okay, actually, put it this way: you might, but our walls don’t want you to.”

‘I need to let out some of my anger,” Valencia protested. “Like you said, you just went through this; you get it.”

Heather considered her for a moment. She circled behind the bar, ducked out of sight, and stood once more with three darts in her fist. Heather set them down in front of Valencia. “Just while I’m closing things up, okay? Technically I’m supposed to be ushering you out the door by now.”

Valencia accepted the offer and positioned herself in line with the board. “Thank you.”

Heather made a noncommittal noise at the back of her throat.

Valencia took aim and threw, but the dart left her hand too late on the curve and swerved right, narrowly missing Heather’s shoulder before it embedded into the wall. 

Heather stared at it for a fraction of a second and simply arched her eyebrows. “I can’t tell if this means you were way off or almost right on target.”

Valencia nearly smiled but protruded her lip in a fake pout instead. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“How many times do you get to try to impale me before I’m allowed to say something?”

“At least one more.”

Heather laughed and continued flipping chairs onto empty tables. 

Valencia’s second dart nicked the baseboard but was otherwise harmless. Her third lodged into a single scoring space near the top. She gave a triumphant cry, but the accompanying bounce of joy proved hazardous to her health. Her balance was briefly thrown off and she had to grab onto the edge of the bar to steady herself.

Heather hip-checked the register closed. “Is it starting to catch up to you?”

“I think maybe a little.” 

Heather upended one of the overturned chairs and scooted it directly behind Valencia. “Wait on this. I’ve gotta do a quick sweep -- the checking the bathrooms kind and the broom-across-the-floor kind -- and then we can figure out how to get you to your apartment.”

Valencia sat swaying in place while Heather rushed to wrap up the last duties. “At least I don’t live too far from here. It’s impossible to live far away from anything in a place this small.”

“Yeah, no, you’re not driving.”

“You have a ride service?” Valencia removed the decorative clasp and winced from the faint ache as her heavy hair was allowed to fall naturally beyond her shoulders.

“No, but we should.” Heather tucked her foot behind the dustpan to keep it from sliding. 

“So what am I supposed to do? Sleep this off in my car? That’s not safe either.”

“Leave it here. Have someone bring you by to pick it up in the morning.” Heather dumped the detritus into a waiting trash can. “I’ll swing wide and take you where you need to be.”

Valencia blinked and tilted her head to the side. “Why?”

“So no one gets hurt. Duh.”

“But I’ve been bugging the crap out of you for the past hour.” Valencia rubbed her fingertips along the oval of metal in her palms. “You could just leave me here. Why help if you don’t have to?”

Heather briefly vanished to check the men’s restrooms. She reemerged and caught Valencia’s eye with her brows knitted together. “People don’t have to want something from you to treat you like a person who matters. I mean, there are totally dickheads out there who act that way, but like... Basic human decency shouldn’t be transactional.”

She disappeared through the door to the women’s stalls, leaving Valencia to mull over her statement. Neither spoke for the remainder of Heather’s shift. Valencia observed the blue moonlight dappled across the floor and scratched her heel against the back of her ankle.

“Ready?” 

Valencia looked up to find Heather holding out her forgotten clutch purse. She took the bag, put her hair clasp inside, and tucked it under her arm. “Yeah, I’m ready to call it a night.”

She stood and Heather put her chair on its designated table. “Same here.”

They left the building. Heather fished the keys out of her cargo pants. She locked the door, turned around, and held out an elbow. 

“Are you good to walk, or...?”

Valencia looked at her feet. Admittedly, it would be easier if she removed the heels and went barefoot, but there was no way that was happening. She tested one exhausted, wobbly step. The parking lot seemed so far from where they stood. Valencia sighed and took hold of Heather’s arm. “I’d better play it safe.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a good call.” Heather proceeded with small strides. Her gaze repeatedly darted in Valencia’s direction, monitoring her steadiness. It took them at least thrice the time it would have ordinarily, advancing at such a faltering pace, but they made it to their destination without disaster. Heather pushed the button to unlock the vehicle and helped Valencia get situated. “You can just throw that notebook in the back.”

Valencia cleared the cushion as Heather suggested and settled comfortably. She reached for the seat belt and Heather climbed in beside her. “Why does the inside of your car look like you bought out a yard sale?”

Heather lifted her eyebrows, but her tone was unfazed. “You kinda have a habit of insulting people who are being nice to you.”

“Sorry.” Valencia’s expression became genuinely apologetic. “That was rude.”

Heather twitched her shoulders. “It’s just a thing you might wanna think about. Maybe figure out where that’s coming from.”

She draped an arm across the back of Valencia’s seat while she twisted. Heather reversed out of the parking spot and turned toward the exit. 

Valencia provided a quick set of directions to the apartment, and Heather gave a nod of confirmation that she knew how to reach the address. Valencia removed her hoop earrings, added them to the contents of her clutch, and used the purse as a rather uncomfortable pillow against her window.

Heather adjusted the dials on the radio to fill the silence. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel and occasionally glanced over to check on Valencia, who fell into a fitful sleep before they’d even reached the end of the road.

A while later, Heather gave Valencia’s shoulder a gentle shake. “You’re home.”

Valencia jolted awake and sat upright. She swiped a hand across her cheek. “Oh. Okay. I’ll, um --”

She started to unbuckle herself from the seat, but her volunteer chauffeur left the car. Heather walked to the passenger side and pulled the handle. “You said second floor, right? You’re gonna need a hand on the stairs.”

A possible refusal appeared to form in Valencia’s mouth, but the instinct to fend for herself faded from behind her eyes. “Yeah, probably.”

They linked arms, just as they had before, and made a clumsy but safe journey to Valencia’s front door. Valencia sifted through her belongings for the keys and shoved them into the lock.

“You should sleep on your side. Tuck some pillows so you don’t roll over,” Heather advised. “I’m not sure if you’ve had enough to get sick, but it’s an important precaution just in case, especially if you’re here alone.”

Valencia nodded and stepped through the doorway. “I will.”

Heather hooked her thumbs in her belt loops. “Good. Well, bye.”

Valencia’s grip tightened on her purse. She leaned one arm against the door frame. “Thank you for doing this for me. Seriously. I’m lucky you were there.”

Heather flashed a polite smile. “No problem.”

"I don’t know if it helps coming from me, but Greg’s an asshole.” Valencia caught hold of the door handle and brought it slowly to a close. “Bye.”

Heather’s breath puffed out in a weak laugh. “It does a little, yeah. I’ll see you... whenever.”

They lifted their hands in parting. Heather reached the stairwell just as Valencia’s door clicked shut. She wound down the passageway and crossed the parking lot to her car. When Heather slid behind the wheel again, she looked at the upper floor of the apartment building. She shook her head with a bemused chuckle and started the engine.

“What a frickin’ weird night.”

[imadeangirl-butimsamcurious]

Two Shirts

Title: Two Shirts – Warmth Series Part 2

Characters/Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam

Word Count: 1600

Reader Gender: Female

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Summary: Tomorrow came, as it inevitably does, and now the reader has to think about her relationship with Dean. But what will happen if they have to share more than a bed?

Author’s Note: Okay guys, here’s part two of the Warmth Series! I can’t thank you all enough for the amazing response the first part of this got and I hope you guys enjoy this just as much! There will be either one or two more parts of this series, depending on how many words it takes me to write what’s left of the story. If you want to be tagged in the next few parts of the please add yourself to This List or send me an Ask. Feedback is appreciated, and enjoy!

P.S. I’m going to stop using the Pond Taglist soon so if you’re on there and want to keep getting tagged in my fics please add yourself to my tag list. Thanks!

Two Beds - Warmth Series Part One

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*Gif is not mine, all gifs used on my blog are from Google Images.*

     It was tomorrow.

     When you’d opened your eyes this morning you became acutely aware of the unfamiliar weight still around your middle, Dean’s muscled arm caging you in in a way that - despite your best efforts - wasn’t unwelcome, but you knew had to be stopped as soon as possible.

     Getting involved with a hunter was dangerous and only ever ended one way: badly. He’d die and leave you alone, or you’d die and leave him, and no matter what happened someone was getting hurt – whether fatally or not. You couldn’t risk emotional attachment or compromise your ability to think rationally – which would most certainly happen if you had a relationship clouding your judgment.

     Mercifully Dean woke up and rolled over at that point, stretching his arms and yawning. Then he flung a pillow at Sam to wake him up.

     And now here you were, sitting in the back seat of the impala and heading back to the room with the beds - the two beds – ready to do it all over again. You promised yourself tonight you would be stronger, promised tonight you would keep your distance and stay away from the man on the other side of the bed, from the man you loved despite your best efforts not to. But you knew the truth. If he pulled you close, if he offered his warmth, your fortitude would crumble and you wouldn’t reject him.

     You never could.

     “Soups on!”

     You and the Winchesters filed into your tiny motel room, the outer layers of fed suits hitting the beds in quick succession and questionable diner food being passed around in grease-soaked cardboard. You took your supper from the room’s wobbly two-person table in favor of the bed, settling against the pillows and putting your dinner on the nightstand, along with a giant soda you never asked for. Dean never did listen when you tried to grasp at some semblance of a healthy meal.

     The three of you ate in an almost-silence, the loudest noises in the room being chewing and the sloshing of over-sized soft drinks. Once the boys had finished inhaling their food, leaving you with still over half of yours left, business as usual kicked back in and you all dove into the case that so far had yielded few results. You’d all spent the day doing the usual: going to the morgue, talking to friends and relatives of the victim, flashing your fake badges to get whatever you deemed necessary for the case. But so far? Nothing. You had no leads, nobody with motive, and a heartless corpse cooling on a metal shelf.

     You were all understandably irritable, so leave it to your clumsy fingers to lighten unavenged-murder-mood.

     You reached for your massive drink, thumb and middle fingers barely even touching, then lost your grip on the smooth paper cup and watched as it and all its contents dropped directly into your still-open duffle bag.

     Dean laughed so hard he practically fell off his chair.

     You scrambled to grab the drink before it emptied itself entirely onto your clothes, but you were too late. Everything was already sticky and soaked, smelling of Root Beer and tinted brown.

     Dean was still laughing on the other side of the room. You balled up a pop-soaked shirt and threw it at his head.

     “Keep laughing, Winchester. Your bag is next!”

     Dean clamped his mouth shut and raised his hands in defense, the dripping t-shirt hanging limply from his fingers. “I’m sorry, YN. But you gotta admit,” he motioned to the bag, “it was pretty funny.”

     You glanced up at the person responsible for you even having that drink in the first place and smiled despite yourself, a breathy laugh escaping your lips. “Shut up.”

     You looked down at your bag and frowned. Everything was covered in sugary soda, there was no way this crappy little motel had any laundry facilities so you’d have to wash everything in the bathroom sink, and even if you started now nothing would be dry by the time you went to bed. You would likely have to try and sleep in what you were currently wearing – which was a dress shirt and pencil skirt from your phony fed suit. You sighed and flopped down on the mattress.

     “Now what am I supposed to do?”

     “Wash them?” Sam offered – rather unhelpfully.

     You lifted your head and glowered in his direction. “I know that, but all my clothes will be wet! What am I supposed to sleep in tonight?”

     You saw a smirk spread across Dean’s face. “Well -”

     “Don’t!” You sat up and pointed an accusatory finger at the eldest Winchester. “Don’t you dare say I can sleep naked.”

     A guilty look replaced his smirk.

     Dean threw your sticky shirt on the table beside him and went to find his bag, rifling around inside until he pulled out a surprisingly well-folded plaid button up. “Here.” He handed you the shirt from across the bed. You sat up and stared at his extended hand with suspicion.

     “Really?”

      “Yes, come on. It’s clean, none of your stuff is, and what you were wearing last night wasn’t warm enough anyway. You were shivering so much it was like a mini earthquake in the bed.”

     Dean threw the shirt into your lap and you mumbled your gratitude, surprise preventing you from forming a coherent thought.

     Then the next think you knew you were bent over the bathroom sink, attempting to wash the last of your stained clothes, the lip of the bathtub and shower rod already hanging with what you’d cleaned so far and the only dry shirts you had folded neatly on the counter. Two shirts.

     One restricting and uncomfortable, only bought to be worn when necessary and never for more than a few hours. And one soft and loose fitting, perfect for sleeping and heavy enough to keep you warm in the freezing motel room with a broken heater and potentially non-existent insulation.

     One belonging to you and carrying no risk of intensifying your feelings for a certain green-eyed, short-haired hunter. And one borrowed and holding the potential to do all of that.

     You reached for Dean’s plaid and pulled it over your head.

     Once you’d finished getting ready for bed and taking care of the soda incident you walked back into the main room to find Dean already under the covers, something on his phone drawing his attention. You walked towards him cautiously, pulling your shirt down with every step in a futile attempt to cover your exposed legs. Dean looked up and his eyes caught on your bare skin. You’d never felt more nervous in your life.

     “Uh – here. Just uh – just climb in.” Dean held up the blankets as he stuttered his greeting, motioning for you to join him in the bed. A timid smile. “You must be cold.”

     “Kinda,” you whispered.

     You crawled under the covers and settled near the edge of the mattress, facing away from Dean and pulling the collar of his shirt up to your face for warmth - or maybe because it smelt like him. But that wasn’t important, as long as you didn’t repeat your mistakes from last night.

     “You know Y/N, he doesn’t bite,” Sam said from across the room, just about to get into bed himself. “You look like you’re gonna fall right off.”

     You did your best to conjure up a laugh, moving just the slightest bit closer to Dean so you didn’t look quite so absurd. Thankfully Sam was asleep shortly after and didn’t press the matter further.

     And then the shivering started again.

     You tucked yourself into a ball, trying to retain as much body heat as possible without stealing any from anyone else. You kept your fisted hand close to your mouth in an attempt to stop your teeth from chattering and somehow managed to get your ice-cold feet under your body.

     “Y/N, this is ridiculous.”

     You halted your desperate maneuvering and turned your head towards Dean.

     “What?”

     “You’re freezing, I can literally feel you shaking. Just come here, let me warm you up.”

     You shook your head in a silent attempt to dissuade him but you knew if he came closer, if he reached out for you, you would do whatever he wanted. So when his hand found your shoulder and he turned you to face him, when your eyes locked on his bright green ones even in the dark of the night, you let him pull you against his chest.

     His chest.

     Last night at least he was behind you, at least you could pretend the band around your waist was a pillow or a blanket if you closed your eyes and concentrated, but now? Now your cheek was pressed against his muscled chest, both of his strong arms holding you close, his shirt rubbing against your skin and his smell all around you. You were lost. Lost in the feeling of him, in your feelings for him, and you didn’t think you would ever find you way back out again.

      The next morning when you woke up, still wrapped in Dean’s arms and both the boys fast asleep, you knew you should move, knew you should get away from Dean as quickly as possible and put all thoughts of last night – of the last two nights – out of your mind. But in the early morning quiet, the chill of winter fading away with every second you spent cloaked in Dean’s warmth, you made no move to get up.

     Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all?

Two Keys - Warmth Series Part Three

Forever Tag List:

@crapythings @destiel-sandwich  @spn-fan-girl-173 @chelsea072498 @bea789 @cass-t-el @myownlittlebookishworld @maj430 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @spirallingdownfandoms @ruprecht0420 @aebirdie @jpadjackles @dpqssmdd @summer-binging-spn @skymoonandstardust @tom-is-in-my-tardis @plaidstiel-wormstache @helvonasche @gizmospacerocket @skatergirl98me @steampunkd16 @brianaistre @sammied23 @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @something-random @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @impalaimagining @millaraysuyai @hamartiamacguffin @fabulouslyboredeveryday @27bmm @quiddy-writes @mogaruke @a-broken-hunter @itsummertime22 @notnaturalanahi @creatively-charlie @notallwhowanderarelost21 @winchesterswantmypie @donnaintx @buckysmetallicstump @mizzezm

Dean Tag List:

@anokhi07 @backbiiter @shameless-danni @katenelsonxo @lipstickandwhiskey @betterlattethennever @ruprecht0420 @kaitlynmarie1120 @deansbaekaz2y5 @mizzezm

Warmth Series:

@feelmyroarrrr @betterlattethennever @mogaruke @a-broken-hunter @itsummertime22 @staraustria @ruprecht0420 @jamiemelyn @spectaculicious @audiblesmirks @walkerbex98 @donnaintx @mizzezm @ellen-reincarnated1967  @yunngarab

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Pond Tag List (Dean):

@aprofoundbondwithdean @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @purgatoan @torn-and-frayed @thegreatficmaster @notnaturalanahi  @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @deathtonormalcy56  @wildfirewinchester @cici0507 @fiveleaf  @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @mrswhozeewhatsis @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles  @babypieandwhiskey @teamfreewill-imagine @chelsea-winchester @fandommaniacx @writingbeautifulmen @revwinchester @ageekchiclife @drarina1737 @castieltrash1 @ohwritever @ruined-by-destiel @inmysparetime0 @winchester-writes @deals-with-demons @faith-in-dean

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