#once again split this up for some semblance of brevity

[flowerflamestars]

Nesta Under the Mountain: acowar remix

The first thing Nesta hears when she wakes up, is Rhysand. 

Who is right by her bedside, waiting, apparently for this exact moment of her eyes opening and coherency on her face to say, with full High Lord gravitas: we would have gone with you. 

Cassian, who has given up any pretense, and is literally on the floor between Rhysand’s armchair and Nesta’s bed, kicks him. 

They didn’t know what happened to her- couldn’t find any wounds, any marks at all, but Nesta wouldn’t wake up. It’s Amren who insists, who sits perfectly still by her side for an hour and says- she did something. She did something like what I did.

Lucien, poisoned with faebane and stabbed in the heart, was lucky to be alive, in and out of consciousness. He’d been awake in the days that followed for just ten minutes. During which he used the hand Azriel was persistently holding to leverage himself out of bed, fallen, been caught by Azriel, and somehow dragged himself to Nesta’s side before passing out, stitches popped and bleeding.

There’s two beds in the room now. 

Cassian doesn’t have the room to process- but he’s noticed, how he’s noticed- that Azriel has spent these days more than not like he is now: Lucien’s hand in both of his. 

A frozen elegy, Lucien’s scarred knuckles, pressed to his mouth.

Nesta’s awake, and Azriel hasn’t dropped Luciens hand.

Listen, Cassian hasn’t slept in days. He thought, truly, Nesta was never waking up. That he was going to sit here and watch her slowly die. He’s absolutely not in his right mind. So he thinks: Oh. oh. 

All three of them.

It’s not unheard of. And Azriel is, of course, one of the absolute best males that Cassian knows. Honorable. Strong. Beautiful. Of course, they’ve worked this out- Nesta is the most unflinching, brutally honest person of all of them. Lucien she can be loud with- Azriel she can be quiet with- enough love to burn the world, why should she give it to just one person?

(a smaller, quieter, sadder part of him that isn’t zipping through thoughts at the speed of light can admit- if it was going to be an Illyrian, if that was even an option-  why couldn’t it be him?

...of course, it would be handsome Azriel over Cassian)

It’s too easy to picture- dark Azriel, vibrant Lucien, moon glow on the blackest night Nesta. 

But none of that matters. Because Nesta is sitting up, and glaring at Rhys and looking like a person again. Looking down and finding Cassian, there on the floor, with a tiny, savage smile. A hesitation- a second, that goes on and on, Nesta’s lovely mouth perked up, her eyes steady on his.

Alive, alive, alive. Cassians imagines- thinks he’s only imagining- that he can feel the steady beat of her heart alongside his.

But then of course eventually Nesta twists to sit up properly, already braiding away the rumpled cascade of her hair. (Cassian’s hands ache to help). Turning, to look at Lucien, grey-tinged and too still in bed.

Azriel answered without needing to be asked, looking at Nesta with weary eyes, Lucien’s limp hand pressed to his cheek. (Cassian’s heart is on fire). Explains that the poison is cleansed and now it will only take time, that Lucien had demanded to see her. The first expression on Azriel’s face in four days straight: a quirk of his full mouth, the ghost of a fond smile, telling Nesta Lucien tore his stitches to get to her.

(Cassian feels a little sick)

Stupid asshole, Nesta will grumble right back, but in that tone that says I love you.

But Nesta will turn away, straight to Cassian, to ask: My sisters?

(Cassian is Not Okay. Cassian’s self-esteem issues are literally going to cockblock him and despite not leaving in days for more than a few moments, Cassian is suddenly desperate to get out of this room. The city. His own skin)

Cassian can recognize trust when he sees it. Swallows. Tells her they’ve been here too, Morrigan just dragged them away to eat. They’re downstairs- he can get them- he can-

The youngest Archeron crashes through the door with Nesta’s own cataclysmic sense of timing, and throws herself at her sister. Elain, a step behind, walks around Cassian to curl up on Nesta’s other side, skirts tucked carefully around her. 

They want to know what happened- and Rhysand, with his usual grace, choses this moment to interject that he would like to too.

(The Cauldron, downstairs, cannot be moved. Reacts to nothing, unaffected by physical strength or magical inquiry. It is, in the end, creepy as fuck. The sisters like it.)

(Not to mention that Nesta- who has always had presence, even as a mortal- whose mean laugh and beautiful face and tendency to yell at him is absolutely some kind of catnip to Rhysie- Nesta now feels like danger. Not the kind you only have to look hard at her to see, that strength that is who she is. Like a High Lord. Something old. Something powerful.)

So Nesta tells them. The King, the Castle of Bone, the Cauldron, who would be a prisoner no longer. Of the reckless, insane thing she’d done when it seemed like they were doomed- of what the Cauldron gave.

(Cassian is glad he didn’t leave. Cassian might never leave her side again, no matter how much it will hurt. Nesta drowned herself in eternity on purpose.)

She doesn’t allow them to congratulate, to question- though Feyre does joke about Nesta seizing the crown.

Nesta looks past them all, to Rhysand. Tells him what she’d told Cassian, the words he’d been holding behind his teeth like succor: She wasn’t the only sister. Rhysand. 

Linnea, Amarantha, Clythia. 

Nesta Archeron had been dragged over the Wall to protect her sisters- been transformed against her will into a monster and chosen that life, in the end, to stop war from marching to mortal lands to them.

Amarantha was a monster. Clythia a mistake. Linnea, long locked away, the discarded eldest, would come to sow vengeance against Prythian’s Vengeance. Against Nesta Archeron and whole continent that had borne and made her.

The war was still coming.

The medical team arrives to do one more round of treatment for Lucien. Nesta, uninterested now that she can resist in being poked and prodded ever, stumbles off to her actual bedroom, deathgrip on Cassian’s arm she will absolutely not admit is keeping her upright. 

She puts herself together. Bathes. Finds clothes. Looks, this time, in the mirror. She looks the same- her face had never changed that much. The subtle glow of immortality, the stupid knifeblade ears. But it’s still her face: her mother’s lathe cheekbones, her father’s plush, lying mouth.

Nesta is a monster, but Nesta is Nesta.

She marches downstairs, and shuts herself in the study with Rhys. Crossed her arms. Stands there, spine straight, feet spread, like she’s going to battle.

Clenches her tattooed hand so hard it hurts. 

She tells him, I want to make a deal. You wanted me in your Court, to fight in the war for the Night. I’ll swear fealty. I’ll be your fucking weapon- just me, not Lucien- if you promise that no matter what happens, no matter who comes, you protect my sisters. To the last fucking breath, Rhysand. 

Rhys stands up. Brushes a hand over his face like he’s thinking and abruptly, laughs. 

Nes, he’ll drawl to the feverpitch of her temper that he definitely has an unhealthy fondness of. You don’t owe me shit. You freed Prythian. You killed Hybern. You tamed the Cauldron. 

Is Velaris suddenly not your home? It’s not a trap. Archeron, you’re one of us, whether you wanted it or not. That means they are too.

Nesta: I am a private contractor. 

Rhys: You’re so involved you’re basically my Third alongside Mor. We would have gone with you. 

And that, in the end, is what does it. Rhys is such a goddamn liar- but that doesn’t mean Nesta hasn’t learned when he’s telling the truth. And he is now.

They would have gone with her- to kill a King. To save her sisters. To enact bloody, reckless violence.

Nesta sits down, steals his teacup, and says: Fine. 

The problem is clear at once: Rhysand thought Linnea was dead. Everyone thought Linnea was dead. Information from when she did live is unclear at best- Amarantha’s half-sister, where Clythia and her had been born to the same unfortunate mother.

Half-mad, denied acknowledgment from her father. Clythia and Amarantha were generals, woman who dealt in violence. Linnea, when she’d lived- when she’d been known- was an alchemist.

What the hell is alchemy? Magic that isn’t ours, Rhysand says darkly. Magic that is unnatural, not quite real. Not the power inside you- the power you can steal from the world.

It usually doesn’t work. It usually kills the fae involved eventually. 

They need more information- they need Azriel, and no one is about to suggest he move a muscle until Lucien wakes back up.

There’s a family dinner, eaten sprawled around the sickroom. Elain, Nesta learns, has made quick work of befriending Morrigan. Feyre’s recklessness- the mirror of Nesta’s- has ensured, with fearless wonder, that she’s absolutely comfortable here. 

(This Rhysand, who knew and was in awe of Nesta first, might like Feyre...but Nesta is his contemporary. The idea that her baby, mortal, youngest sister might also be doesn’t occur to him. Not yet, anyway. There being three Archeron’s at all remains overwhelming.)

Cassian offers to fly Elain and Feyre back to the House. 

It’s Feyre, with the sort of straight forward confusion that can’t be feigned, who says, after Cassian has set them down and is walking into the warm halls with them: Aren’t you going back? Oh, is Nesta coming here?

Cassian’s heart: ground zero. Cassian’s brain: just far enough from the explosion to be burning, burning, burning. 

Elain, who is a lot more like Nesta now that she isn’t frozen in worry, frowning just a little. Not warning- something worse, abject disappointment: We can get settled on our own. Nesta told me she’s sleeping at the townhouse tonight, in case Lucien wakes.

Feyre, yawning: Oh right, bye Cassian.

And then Cassian is left alone, the doors shut. 

Let us return to Nesta: feet propped up on the blankets of Luciens bed, quietly drinking whiskey. Watching, with a pang in her chest she’ll ignore and ignore and ignore, while Azriel- now that it’s just them, Nesta, who Lucien had explained to Azriel like this: I’d die for her. She’s my...Cassian. I’m always going to choose her, and if we do this you can’t hate that. Nesta, who is family- is gently braiding the riot of bloodred hair off Lucien’s face.

She handed over the half-full glass when he was done, and Azriel tossed the whole thing back. Said, eventually, as they sat there watching Lucien breathe together: that’s the first time Cassian has left.

Nesta, leaning even further back in the chair: Oh?

Azriel, with humor, steady in his deep voice: Rhysand had to make him let go so the healers could check you. He’s been in this room for a week.

Nesta, who’s still looking at the braids. Nesta, who’d woke and known that Cassian would have made sure her sisters were okay: Will he ever say anything?

Az: Does he need to?

Nesta, with a scoff: For me, no. For himself, yes. And then, softer. Thank you. For taking care of him. 

They both know she isn’t talking about Cassian.

Azriel will just nod. Say, like it’s nothing, the bare truth: He’s all the light, in the entire world.

Nesta hears again Cassian, tearing through words like they hurt to say: you’re the whole world.

Nesta, aloud: And much too stubborn to die.

This, unfortunately, the last two sentences, are all Cassian hears, frozen outside the door.

He walks away.

The next day, Lucien awake, Rhysand will call them all together and divide up what must be done. Lucien and Az: information. Morrigan: the darkbringers. Cassian and Nesta: the Legions.

It’s time for Nesta Archeron to go to Ilyria.

@more-espresso-less-depresso-xx @rhaenystargaryn @morrkrii @just-a-starcrossed-writer @clolikescloquetas @did-you-miss-me221 @caotica-e-quieta

#once again split this up for some semblance of brevity #poor baby self-worth issues Cassian #acting like an adorable tool #Rhys! and Nesta almost friends #very almost #it was always a story about the love between sisters #and it will be #to the bitter #bitter end

[supergirlmelbenoist]

SUPERGIRL MELISSA BENOIST IS OUT OF THIS WORLD

She sits alone in a bistro in West Hollywood, discreetly staring at a few other busy tables. Maybe someone says she respectfully does not look like Supergirl now? TV superhero, Supergirl, wears a cheerleader style skirt, a miraculously elastic fabric top, and often lipstick; Benoist, who will make 30 years this year, presents in a differentiated way, light makeup in a modest blouse and jeans - next doctorate in style. Just a few days ago, she finished recording the third season of the much-loved and youthful series that has been home to The CW since it changed in the second season of CBS's premier series series.

An apology is given for being a bit late because of Uber. But Benoist, putting aside her pencil, is gracious: "I came here alone."

It is a phrase that could have come from his character Kara Zor-El, describing his rival on our planet. For the duration of the Superfamily myths back to the invention of Superman comics in 1934 - and finally, his cousin Supergirl in 1959 - the clan exhibits various powers that, with interference from green and red Kryptonite, are used to ensure the truth, justice, and American way.

"If someone throws something at me, we have to cheat and pretend I got it, because I can not get it!"

The pilot episode of the 2015 series features Kara at the age of 13 being cast catastrophically from her home exploding on the planet Krypton and being raised in an obscure peace as Kara Danvers. Adulthood brings her to National City where she adopts her growing identity as superhero Kara Zor-El- the closest move to an old TV school, a loyal superhero who was Lynda Carter in the '70s in Wonder Woman.

Not that Supergirl / Kara is the first character of Benoist to make a significant transformation. Prior to joining Supergirl, Benoist starred in 2012 to 2014 as a new face, a specialist in singing and dancing as Marley Rose on Glee. Both series (Glee ended in 2015) showed the semblance of a young, charming and highly attractive (including villains); Benoist easily occupied each of her roles, filling in similar bows as she arrived as a naive one that gradually surprised the audience by showing that she can handle difficult tasks with resourcefulness and moral certainty stays. With Supergirl maturing as a heroine - and herself as an actress - Benoist transformed an initially naive and uncertain Kara into an incredible destructor-powerful, who not only expanded her superpowers but also became somber, a dark person in the character disillusioned with her career and the romantic difficulties that pulled her through deep waters.

The plot may be of obscure thoughts, but Benoist also has to swim upstream in her acting, given what she describes as an attribute to the Spock way embodied by the natives of Krypton. "What I find most interesting about interpreting Kryptonians," she says, "is that they are so absolutely clean. Whether it's Clark Kent or Kara Danvers, they're so all-American that sometimes you want their morale to tear yourself up a bit, for them to have a dilemma. "

For physical empowerment and athleticism, Supergirl shows while dragging thieves often around the wreck.

During the sets of the series, Benoist quickly argues. "Oh! I still can not get a ball to save my life, "she says, laughing. "On the set, if someone throws something at me, we have to cheat and pretend I got it, because I can not get it!"

By the time, anyway, Los Angeles does not seem to be on fire, and it's time to order lunch. Benoist had not only accepted her restaurant partner's offer to split fries - "I do not know a single person who would not eat fries if they were on the table," she opines, "it increases saturated fat by adding bacon-wrapped dates to share . She also offers a fluffy crossword puzzle: "Monday is the easiest."

Our congratulatory toast is for new ventures, just this morning we came to announce that Benoist will make a two-month call on Broadway (during his TV break) as Carole King in Beautiful. Much of what goes on in the show is geared toward King's life in exceptional piano compositions, so Benoist's starring cut as Terpsicor as seen on Glee will be sporadic. But the time and camera lens that does not seem to be exhausted from having it repeated and sentimentally proves that it takes the audience into a proposal of lyrics or powers amid a pop anthem like "Wrecking Ball."

In another year of hiatus, maybe it was the role of a movie that attracted her. Out of the hands of the films she has made in the last decade, two specials emerge as being remarkably effective with the exception of their brevity. In Damien Chazelle's film in 2014, Whipash, she was cruelly left behind by the battery-obsessed character Miles Teller, and as the pain socializes with the challenge, she spits out exactly what viewers are asking, "Who ... is wrong with you?" When asked about this speech, after a brief pause, Benoist says, "That was triumphant for her. I saw it that way. "His best moment two years ago in Peter Berg's Patriots Day also occurs across a table, in an even fiercer, yet still almost whispering scene, such as Katherine Russell, the wife of the newly murdered in the Boston Marathon by terrorist Tamerlan Tsarnaev. Locked up by an iron fbi interrogator also in hijab, Russell is frankly and devoutly converted Muslim who may be an accomplice in the bombing, America's most hated woman at that moment, and possibly aware of the second pumper's whereabouts. Against the investigation, played by the formidable Khandi Alexander, Benoist's new widow is a figure with a lethal contemplation that reveals zero but total insult, "He will kiss me again when he sees me in the sky." Bonnist auditioned for Patriots Day as a of the victims. But when she was once again called to the cleverest and Russell's key role, she quickly accepted, taking inspiration from Oscar winner Jame Judi Dench for eight minutes on Shakespeare in Love: "She's the prime example." day-to-day access my emotions and brings them to the forefront. "Ben has played in the tabulareiro since he was a small child. Julie's daughter and Jim Benoist grew up in Littleton, Colorado, outside Denver, and moved to New York to attend Marymount Manhattan College. She lived on the cheap and saw a more somber reality. "I really feel - at the risk of being extremely serious - like I found myself in New York," she says. "Just because you're not happy does not mean you're not inspired, fulfilled or stimulated." After playing a role as a schoolgirl in Aaron Woodley's Tennessee film in 2008, she told an interviewer on the red carpet at the premiere of Tribeca Film Festival, "I was screaming a lot and I was very happy." She graduated in 2011 with a Bachelor of Arts degree in theater and arts and some stage roles for her credit, but soon auditioned for Glee - and the rest is a show business ascending step by step. As a three-year-old Benoist says who had a natural curve because of the emotional state he had to fight, which the Glee staff ensured bravado. "Middle-aged kids are typically drama queens because they do not get a definite kind of attention from their parents," says Benoist. "They are not the first children and they are not the golden children, and they are not the babies so they are not spoiled. It's like we're in limbo. "Benenoist has used this energy for many roles, making" chipper "as a clerk confused by the maturing of rock star Al Pacino in 2015, Danny Collins, becoming a well-known hipster in Lowriders, the empathy she can find to express Waco's account of Rachel Koresh, the wife of worship leader David Koresh. These days, Benoist is up with the challenge of being number one on Supergirl's daily call sheet, but is to share the credits. David Harewood - which the character, Hank, has been severely authoritarian with her lately - definitely his creative engine. She mentions her character Othello (he played the unfortunate Moor of Shakespeare years ago) because "I think it encapsulates many things, because - first and foremost, I think David is a brilliant actor. He was the first black man in England to play Othello on stage at the Royal National Theater. "In a dramatically rigorous term, Supergirl has the benefit of a preparation in which Terran people and aliens take turns ahead, kindly complicated, both loving interest and friendship . Accessing Kara's love interest, Mon-El (Chris Wood), she finds Shakespeare relevant again: "They also have this thing that they were a passionate couple of two opposing houses because he was from Daxam- which I presume you could relate to Romeo, Julieta's Montenegrin - and she was a captive in Krypton. I think it's also different, because of the responsibilities they shared by having those abilities and powers. Another thing I admire that we explore is how a woman - a powerful woman - navigates between love and relationships. It is not always beautiful. "" It is a life experience - experiencing tragedies, which we all go through, through loving disillusionment and joy and fear and love, and open to all of this. "Bonist felt entitled to have influence on the statements of your character and responsibilities with the scripts you were given. "Yes, it passed through my hands," the actress says."But the fact that matters is, I have to get up and go do it. I have to feel right about this as a woman experiencing this. There are moments too, in which I thought, "I think that's what we're describing, and I do not think it's right for young girls to see that ..." - being about relationships or feeling empowered or how you treat other people . I have some power, for some reason, a margin to control what the conversation is. "Last season, we saw a reduction in Kara's interaction with her older sister, Alex, played by Chyler Leigh, but what goes on is an intimacy that is of brotherhood, on camera and out of it. "Chyler is very maternal, and she's very welcoming, and she cares enough about what she says on paper because she has daughters," Benoist says. "We all, especially the women in the series, feel very special about being a part of it, and every day we talk about what we're talking about to young girls and what we're teaching them. Sometimes we get it wrong, sometimes we feel really good about it and proud. So Chyler is like a partner in it. "Kara's birthright as a Krypton refugee are scanty factors, she adds, as she can continue her superheroic work to protect her foster family from the Terran planet with all her heart. "What's fascinating to me about it, and I hope we can explore a little more of it next season, it's nature versus education. Would her Kryptonian side push her to have the same values ​​and the same consciousness and the same need to help people and save them, or would she be influenced and different in the way she tackles all this? "In early August, Benoist comes back for other long months of recording in the sounds and occasionally outdoor studios of Vancouver, British Columbia, a city she came to love- and back to immersing herself in the battles and successes of a life of twins like Kara Danvers and the growing the dominant person of Kara Zor-El. "My day-to-day life accesses my emotions and brings them to the forefront," she says. "While everyone in this country, for the most part, pushes them down. Especially when it comes to women's issues, because the conversation is very important now, which makes me very happy. "While giving the crossword open a fold and puts it in the bag - which occupies along with a collection of essays by David Foster Wallace - it adds up to how much work and life are welcome to socialize to go forward. "It is life experience-experiencing tragedies, which we all experience, such as loving disillusionment and joy and fear and love, and being open to all of it. And be ready to face what the world will play for you, because the world throws burnt balls at all of us. I understand things now, almost 30 years old, that I did not understand with 21- what is a Captain Obvious thing to say, but I love telling stories that are finite and that contains messages rooted and that you can find out by itself. Whether it's on stage, on TV, show, or on film, it's where I want to be "

[emberfaye]

Bitter

So @windsurfingthroughhell posted a really cruel thought about Cassie, Pritkin, and a coffee shop and I got inspired to write something for the first time in forever. It’s my first time writing Chanceverse, so I’m sorry if the details are wrong or characterization is bad.

John Pritkin had been many places in his life so far. There are many adjectives he supposes suit him: experienced, voyager, wayfairer, adventurer, seeker….

He’d sooner face another demon in the Shadowworld than claim one of those words.

If he had to pick, he’d probably best be described as “bloody exhausted”. Transfering across time zones is tough on your sleep cycle, especially if you wrapped up all your assignments in your old country before skipping over the Atlantic and having to come from behind and assist with a massive fuck up that only led to another mess that needed to get cleaned up

To say it had not been a smooth transition was a bit of an understatement.

Luckily, one of the few things that made John have some semblance of hope was the fact that America was a culture of instant gratification, no matter the occasion. They wanted what they wanted, when they wanted, the bigger the better.

Which worked out, because that meant you were guaranteed to find an open restaurant, store, or, Pritkin’s happy place, a 24 hour café. And not only was Bitter Beans open all night, all day, it had damn good coffee. (He was skeptical the first time he had it that it would live up to the name, but one sip and he could feel his adrenaline increase 1000%.)

And the absolutely best part was that his coworkers weren’t here. (Don’t get him wrong, he would die for one of his comrades in a heartbeat. But occasionally he just didn’t want to tolerate the comradery outside of “shit hitting the wall” kind of situations.)

Walking into Bitter Beans, rolling his eyes at the fact that the door stuck just the slightest when first pushed, he instinctively began to notice his surroundings. Being that he liked to work out early in the morning, he had gotten to use to a max of 3 other customers, however usually it was just him and the barista in the “gave up trying to modernize” dining room.

He supposed there’s always one thing that isn’t going to suck.

The barista, one he hadn’t seen before, is idly doodling, leaning on the counter with one arm. She calls out a greeting and straightens, and a strange look flashes through her eyes when he steps up to order. It’s gone in a heartbeat, and he doesn’t care to even think about it. People are crazy, and he just wants his coffee.

“One extra large black, to go.”

If his brevity bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She nods, one finger hitting the buttons on the computer. “4.12, please.”

He counts out the change, sets it on the counter and slides it towards her, then steps to the side to wait. She tenders her drawer, pushes her black and brown ponytail back over shoulder. He lets his eyes drift shut for just a minute, even though a part of him wants to keep an eye on the coffee, because last night was ridiculous (Did these mages even get properly qualified for their jobs?) and sleep was sparse in the few weeks he’d been here. Hell, sleep was parse this year, period.

“Here you go, sir!”

Sighing and opening his eyes, he turned to grab his coffee and saw the girl with two extra large cups. He opened his mouth to correct her, but she simply said, “You look really tired. My treat.” John was about to refuse again, but then he met her eyes and the sheer concern in them silenced him.

“Thank you.” He took them and started walking, an unsettling itch between his shoulders.

Who had that much compassion for a stranger, in this day and age?

The next time he stepped into Bitter Beans, was of course, the day it was crowded. Because he was angry, he had to deal with people. Of bloody course.

Scowling, he got into line. Where had these people been for the last several weeks? Were these even people, or just golems the universe had activated to aggravate him? The line seemed to not even move by inches, but simply in shuffles and sighs. He could barely see the overwhelmed barista as she did order by order, taking their money and then making their drink, and repeat.

Whatever expression she wore before he made it to the front of the line, he didn’t know. But he did notice that when she looked up and saw him, her face shone for just a split second and a smile teased her lips before she schooled her face back into the pleasant look all harried customer service workers rely on.

“One extra—”

“Extra large black, to go! 4.12, please.” John didn’t like being interrupted, especially when it was almost completely in sync with his words, but he also didn’t like that she had caught him so completely off guard. His scowl deepened and he dropped the money on the counter before moving aside to let her get the coffee. She was apparently out of the right cups, because she disappeared through the small door for a few minutes, and then came back with his beverage. She handed it to him with a smile, and he made sure to scowl as he took it from her (gently, he didn’t want to spill it, not just for the waste but also irritated as he was neither of them needed to feel that burn) and maneuvered to the exit.

It was hours later, after so much tedious meetings and paperwork, that he happened to see the name she had written on it, and before he could stop himself he let out a huffing laugh.

He went in the next morning, extremely relieved when it was again empty save for the older woman eating a bagel and typing away, her headphones keeping her isolated from the world.

The barista had her back to him, wiping down a machine, and called a greeting over her shoulder. He stood, hands in his pockets, and waited. When she got to a pausing point, she dropped the rag and stepped over to the register, finally looking up, a smile already on her face.  “Good morning Grumpy!”

He raised an eyebrow, but she just shrugged. “You looked like you want to just burn everything down yesterday, so…Anyways, extra large black to go?”

Although he had every intention to make today a busy day, and should appreciate less chatter, he found himself mildly irked instead, and, examining it later, he realized he wanted her to feel off balance (not that she made him feel off balance, not at all).

“No, I’ll take it for here.”

She blinked at him, seemed to look up for a second, and then just smiled. “Okay, have a seat, I’ll bring it right out. Anything else for you?” When he shook his head, she continued “$1.75”. He again slid the money across the counter, and she picked it up.

Choosing a seat against the wall midway from the counter and door, he observed her. She was completely unremarkable, her hair a common mix of black and brown, and her eyes a simple black. She was completely average in her movements, her speech, and even the fact that she remembered his order was not that unusual if most days were super slow.

So why did she give him the exact opposite vibes? His scowl must have come back, because she had a teasing smile again on her face as he brought the coffee.

“Here you go, Grumpy.”

“Do you always find such unflattering nicknames for your customers?” He hadn’t meant to speak, but she paused and put a hand on a hip and looked down at him.

“Only when they don’t introduce themselves when they become a regular.”

Damn, he really didn’t have a reply for that. “You didn’t introduce yourself either, I thought that was part of your training?”

She actually giggled at that. “I don’t even wear a nametag, do you think they want the rest of this crazy city knowing my name just by looking? Stalker ville, population one.”

He felt a smirk coming and drank his coffee to curb it. “Fair enough.” It was a clear moment for her to exit, but she lingered. He blamed his time in the Victorian ages for his manner, because he said, “What is your name?”

“Cas—Cathy” she stammered.

He narrowed his eyes just the slightest and took another sip. He heard the door being pushed, and as she began her trip back to the register, he murmured, “John.” Judging by the smile on her face and the small glance she gave him before the new customer blocked the view, she had heard.

He told himself he didn’t care.

After that, he never got coffee to go. He didn’t go everyday, but if there wasn’t work to do and he wasn’t too beat up, he would make his way two blocks down to that little silver door with the faded red cup on it, and push it open, careful of the fact that it stuck.

It seemed like Cathy had a 6th sense for when he was going to show, because he would barely have gotten through the doorway before she was calling out hi and pouring a steaming cup of joe as he settled into “his” table.

If it wasn’t busy, and it very rarely was, they would talk.

The first time she plopped down at his table, he was taken aback, although he really should have seen it coming. She complained about being bored, and then asked what he was reading (his assignment glamoured to be a classic novel) and she smiled that cursed, teasing smile.

“I bet you just read that to look cool in public.”

“Yes, of course.” But inside, he didn’t like the fact that he liked that she thought he was cool.

A few weeks in, and she would have her own cup ready to sit next to him, and a daily paper on his table for them to share (In reality, she would read excepts she thought he needed to hear, while he drank his coffee and interjected whenever she missed the point. He was more than amused with the way she made it dramatic and silly, she loved that he felt the need to nitpick everything).

It hit him all at once that things were not okay because of a stupid clock.

Like every morning there wasn’t a mission to recover from, John had woken up and done his morning routine of shielding, followed by a work out. However, on his way out the door to bitter beans, he happened to glance at the clock beside the door and realize that it wasn’t even 430am yet. He always was done with his workout by 5, and out the door by 5:20.

Frowning, he paused, hand on the doorknob, and after a moment realized he had rushed through his routine like a schoolboy, skipping one part entirely.

Leaning his forehead against the door, he whispered a very emphatic “Bloody hell.”

He had grown attached to Cathy.

Like a little idiot, he had gotten into a routine that involved a mortal, and he was going to get her killed, like everyone else, if he got any further in. He didn’t know how Cathy, the average barista, of all people could have become someone he counted as a friend but…

“Of course you do, idiot.” Groaning, Pritkin rubbed his forehead. He was out of practice lying to himself. Cathy was nice, and fun, and always gave him an oversized mug but charged for a regular. He was an idiot.

And he couldn’t return there, ever again.

Opening the door, he made his way to headquarters. Their coffee sucked, but he would get used to it.

It was 7am, and Cathy’s replacement was due to arrive any moment. She looked around the dining room again, and Pritkin had not magically appeared in Bitter Beans. She bit her lower lip, and tried to think of an excuse to be alone so no one would worry when she cried.

#casskin #john pritkin #cassie palmer #my work #chanceverse fic #i'm so sorry if it sucks #and yes she brewed it extra strong for him