dave strider – Page 12

ticktocksheep:

“That’ll be $11.28,” he drawls, throwing his pretty customer a smile that makes her giggle as she hands over the payment of her soy latte. You don’t miss the few extra moments she uses to linger, and as she passes your table, you wonder just how long it will take for her to slip her number over the counter. He’s there nearly every time you come in, taking orders and mixing drinks and never, ever missing an opportunity to flirt with every female that enters the establishment. It’s the very reason you always wait till he’s preoccupied to let another employee handle your requests.

This place has become something of a favourite haunt to you. The ever-present smell of coffee beans and idle chatter of patrons makes for the ideal setting where you can find the right mindframe to work. It’s a small coffee shop, independently owned by a young couple you had the pleasure of meeting your first visit, called Bee-Witched, which still baffles you. Still, it was an odd name suited to its odd owners, odd customers, and odd employees

When you have the time, you’ll spend it here with your laptop, powering through the revising (and revising, and revising) phases of your novel. It’s not fun work, as your agent is always assuring you, but most of the book comes out through revision. Still, at the moment, it only feels as if revision is taking away from the book, seeing as you’ve had to cut nearly two-hundred pages of your prose in an effort to thin out the content. It makes you less than happy to have to do this, since perfection on the first try is what you strive for, but it’s the game you’ll have to learn to play if you ever want to be a published author. With a sigh, you resolve to write the current chapter staring you in the face afresh, brevity be damned.

After some time of frustratedly typing only to reject what you’d just written and delete it, you’re still no closer to filling the blank page. Soon, you are pulled from your work (or rather, your lack of work) by the sound of a voice. “God damn. That’s so purple I’m gonna be smelling lavender for a week.” You whirl around and collide immediately with someone’s forehead. There’s a grunt of pain and a shuffle backwards as Mr. Hotshot From Behind the Counter holds a hand to his face, giving the spot where your skull met his a rub. “God damn,” he repeats, and you get the feeling that if he hadn’t been wearing those sunglasses (indoors, might you add) he would have given you a look that scorched. “One hell of a way to make an entrance. Can’t a guy sneak a peek at some wizard slashfics without getting decked in the face? How will I ever know what happens to Lord Voldemort’s fae-stolen third cousin once removed? It’s fuckin’ criminal. You gotta tell me what happens next or watch all my kinky fantasies wither away to nothing.”

You stare at him, shifting your gaze from his face to the counter where he stood previously. “Just how did you get over here so fast? I only saw you a minute ago taking an order,” you demand. He grins, seeming bemused, and pushes his aviators up by the bridge.

“Well, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.” He leans in, conspiritorial. “When I was just a little pukemonster, my Bro trained me in the ancient arts of being totally rad, which includes being faster than a Jew chasing a dollar bill fluttering across the breeze. It’s like being a ninja, only cooler.” You’re having a hard time recognising whether or not he’s serious, but he continues before you can come to a decision. “You might want to invest in a watch or something, ‘cause you’ve been at your smutty endeavours for the last twenty minutes. It doesn’t take being as fast as the Flash on crystal meth to mosey over and see just what you’ve been doing to twist the poor, poor Harry Potter franchise into your Eldritch bloodvisions foretelling doom and many-tentacled destruction for all. Have to admit, I’m curious to see what you’ll settle on. Personally, I liked the version where Zazzerpan was using his ancient book of evil spells and bullfuckery as a seat for the little midget dude that kept screaming obscenities in Swahili. Or wait, no, that didn’t happen, but it should. Get a fucking pen, we’re writing this shit down. Make a masterpiece up in here, earn millions, be swimmin’ in the boonbucks, you and me. Dave Strider, by the way.” His introduction is tacked on seamlessly to the rest of his rambling, which is delivered with hardly a pause for breath. Obviously, he’s more than used to talking, talking fast, and talking while not letting anybody else get a word in edgewise.

“Rose Lalonde,” you reply, shutting your laptop with a pointed look toward him, eliciting another grin, “And I might have worked that last bit out on my own, considering your name tag. Is this your idea of a pickup line? Because if so, I must say, you get points for creativity, but it isn’t happening.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I’m a saint over here. No pick-up lines for this stand-up young gentledude, no way, no how. I’m-” A pause. “Wait, you mean the wizard slash isn’t happening, or me potentially asking you out isn’t happening? ‘Cause, I could deal with the first, but it’d be more than a shame for me to strike out, ‘specially since you’re such an admirer and all.” As you start on an incredulous reply, he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “No no, there’s no need to deny it, little Rosita, I already know. You’re here almost every time I’m working, and those stares, ooh, I’m getting shivers. It’s clear you got it bad, girl, but hey, that’s why I’m here. Figured I’d give the pretty little lady her chance.”

God damn. Now that was certainly an assumption plucked from thin air. You’re torn between horror and amusement, but this brings to mind a new course of action. You rise from your chair, taking a step toward him, and just barely reach his chin. “Well, I suppose the hypothetical cat is out of the bag and fleeing across the border in order to start its new life in Mexico as a fruit vendor,” you sigh, resigned, and lay a hand on his shoulder with a brief smile. This close, you can just barely see eyes widen from behind the shades, but he makes no protests until you gently trail a black-painted fingernail along his throat and the underside of his chin.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I- uh, sure, but we- we’re in public, y’know, people staring and shit.”

You let out a small chuckle and say, at nearly a whisper, “Then let them stare.” You lean up close and tug his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, catching a glimpse of eyes that were a bright red, hardly seeming real. “Dave?”

“Yeah,” he responds faintly, blinking like you’d shined a bright light on his face.

Your smile fades just as you say, “Better luck next time,” and draw your head back before slamming it into his own. He stumbles, swears, and leans against the table behind him for support. You make to abscond as quickly as possible, gathering up your laptop and fleeing the scene with your coffee untouched.

Just before you’re out the door, you hear a familiar lisping voice call out, “Strider, if you’re done with your mating ritual, we need you behind the counter. Break’s over!”