Title: Coffee Moods
Author: watson (
hiddenwatson@yahoo.com)
Distribution: please email me first
Rating: PG to NC-17, see individual entries for rating
Disclaimer: BtVS characters, concepts and dialog belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, The WB, UPN and others. The stories contained here are of a personal nature, non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.
Summary: Thoughts and frivolities in a coffee sort of way. This is another new venture for me, I've never done short stories before, here goes.
*****
Coffee MoodsSummary: Tara enjoys an afternoon of mocha, reflections and an unexpected encounter. Apologies to Betsy Lou Plotnick's from East Cupcake, Americans without passports and people who work in the City.
Setting: Post-Season 6
Rating: PG-13
Old buildings, new faces. An evergreen icon that eternally reinvents itself. Where the ancient and the daring sit comfortably side by side, sharing the spotlight. Take a deep breath and let the character and history permeate through to your core.
That's London for you.
The last time I visited the city was those far away eons ago, a small window of an afternoon between landing at the airport and meeting with Mr Giles, on my way to Devon to collect Willow from the coven.
All I remembered, and that was because I kept the ticket as souvenir, was spending that afternoon on the top deck of a bright red “hop-on, hop-off” tour bus. My mind was too preoccupied with Will's condition to appreciate the rare sunny weather or any of the sights I saw that day. How was she? Would she be changed? What of the future? Our future?
We hardly talked about those times anymore. At first we talked about it to death, all of us, Buffy and Dawn and Mr Giles and even Spike put in his two cents, though none of us took any notice. Willow's addiction, her little foray into abuse and degradation. We analyzed and dissected; discussed and divided blame.
But eventually I realized we had to move on, that we couldn't always be pussyfooting around her, always afraid of a relapse, that we had to start showing trust. So gradually, that episode faded into the background of our memories, like all the other indiscretions all of us had committed from time to time.
Things were different now.
We were in London for business and pleasure. Or rather, she was here for business, meeting clients, impressing them with her brilliance and charming them with her knowledge. She was so successful in her career she was in demand almost constantly.
Me, I was the trailing spouse, she tried to take me whenever she traveled, which was becoming increasingly frequent. Our suitcases were perpetually packed, our bathroom littered with small bottles of hotel shampoo and our kitchen full of sauces and ingredients for recipes we didn't have time to try out.
Didn't know how either of us could bear it, if we spent too much time away from each other. Deep down we were probably afraid the magic would fade. Even though she didn't do spell magic anymore, and most nights she worked on her laptop till late. Still, I got to go to bed next to her and I woke up early to watch her sleep.
So it was four in the afternoon and I found myself in a coffee shop at the top end of Soho with a mocha and a book. Another coffee shop to add to my collection. Her meetings would finish soon and we'd arranged to meet in this local looking place that had a touch of bohemia to it. Rough wooden furniture, back editions of magazines scattered all over, old leaflets advertising poetry open mikes, a whiff of Golden Virginia from the back rooms. Reminded her of her geek-infested roots, she said. Well, except for the tobacco part.
I spent the day walking from our hotel through the West End shopping areas, eventually reaching “swinging” Carnaby Street. Browsing through the shops, being the faithful tourist.
She'd taken to wearing shirts with double cuffs lately, so I bought her a pair of hand-painted stained glass cufflinks. And a matching hairclip for me. I hope she didn't think matching accessories were too cheesy, or I was too possessive or anything.
I couldn't help it, I took my purchases out and admired how the colored glass caught the light of the afternoon sun.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" I looked up and saw red hair. My heart skipped a beat, then settled down again. "Sorry, all the tables are occupied, do you mind sharing?"
"Sure," I replied, not wanting to be rude.
"These look very nice. Handmade?" my new neighbor nodded at the trinkets.
"Um, yes. I think so. That's what the label says. They caught my eye as soon as I saw them and I had to have them," I said, a bit sheepishly. Dad would never approve of such blatant flaunting, especially over a couple of
inconsequential baubles.
"May I?" A slender hand asked the question and the clip slipped out of my grip. A warm stream spread up my fingers where we touch, briefly. I quickly jerked my hand away and made a fist.
She was holding the hairclip,
my hairclip, against her hair and craning her neck to see her reflection in the mirror on the far wall. The tiny glass panels momentarily reflected the sunlight and the brightness blinded me for a split second.
"Nah, not for me, hair's too short. Now these I can do something with," with that, the clip returned to my hands and was exchanged for the cufflinks. I blinked, speechless at the girl's audacity.
She held the cufflinks against her ears, a pair of makeshift earrings, twisting her head left and right. "What do you think? Any good?"
"They're nice," I managed to respond without stuttering. And they were nice, the different colors played off perfectly against the red hair. I could picture them against another set of red hair and made a mental note to go back to the shop.
"Oooh, I think I might keep these." the girl declared. I must have looked so horrified that she immediately backtracked. "No, no, just joking."
I shifted in my seat and studied the back of my book intently, all of a sudden the small round coffee shop table felt like it had shrunk. I swallowed hard.
"You're awfully quiet for an American," she said out of the blue.
"Excuse me?" I sighed, frowning inwardly at this girl's forwardness.
"You
are American right? I can tell from the accent. Where are you from? Not New York, not East Coast. California?" she asked.
"Y-y-yes. Sunnydale, near Santa Barbara."
"You're not what I imagined someone from California to be like," she continued. "You're far too reserved."
I looked at her directly. She didn't seem malicious, but her comments were disquieting.
"How do you imagine a California native to be like?" I questioned.
"Oh, you know, all ‘How ya doin'? I'm Betsy Lou Plotnick from East Cupcake, California. I'm a cheerleader and my ambition is to save the world. Have a nice day’," she squeaked in a bubble-gum voice. "Well, either that, or it's Britney."
"Now that's plain unfair stereotyping," I cried in mock indignation. "Betsy Lou has most likely never set foot outside of California, plus she doesn't even have a passport to get her to England in the first place."
"Yeah, and London's located somewhere in the vicinity of New York City. Scotland's this district of London and as for Wales, she doesn't know about Wales, aren't they very big fish that swim in the ocean and have a water-fountain on their head?" she added.
We shared a small laugh. I supposed I should feel offended but I realized this was the dry, backhanded British style of humor that managed to sneak up at you unawares. Very Giles.
"So, you here on a visit? Have you been to the UK before?" she asked in a much more friendly tone.
"This is my first proper visit, my last one was too rushed to see anything in detail," I said.
"Have you done the tourist rounds yet?"
"A little. At the risk of sounding like an American, it's awesome," I said the last with my most popcorn-like voice. "All that unparalleled history and pageantry and architecture."
"You an architect then?"
"No, illustrator. Mainly books but I'm learning to do more on the computer. I have an excellent teacher," I smiled the smile of the smitten and felt a blush coming on. I came to the realization that I'd been the one answering all the personal questions and started wondering if I was being pumped. I decided to return the favor. "What about you? Are you from London? What do you do?"
"Local girl born and bred, I work in a bar, hence the free time during sunlight hours," she looked like she wanted to say more, but stopped herself.
"Do you like it?" I asked, keeping the conversation on neutral ground.
"It's not bad, better than working in the City," she snorted.
"Um, as opposed to the country?" I asked, trying not to sound stupid.
"City's short for City of London. The financial district," she explained. "Kinda like your Wall Street."
Now I felt like a dork. "Of course, I have heard of it, I just didn't make the connection."
"No worries. It's just a workplace. Tons of people descend on a tiny square mile Monday morning and leave Friday afternoon. There's no soul there. Most people would rather be someplace else," she said wistfully.
"I take it you used to be one of those soul-less workers who managed to escape to the someplace else?" I glanced her way and received a nod and wry smile in affirmation.
"I was in a band, it didn't pan out so I'm working in the bar for the time being," she said. "Actually, there's a gig tonight at the bar, the band's really good and I might get some stage time. Would you, uh, are you... may be... free?" she asked hesitantly.
Tonight Willow resolved to keep her Powerbook firmly shut down and we would have a romantic night together — dinner reservation confirmed (twice, by my ever reliable redhead), plenty of candles at the ready, champagne chilling in our room — everything was in perfect shape, the do-not-disturb sign would stay firmly on our door until well into the morning.
"Oh. I've got plans tonight," I declined gently.
"What about tomorrow night, or another night, while you're still in London?" she was kind of pushing now.
"It's not so convenient," I smiled at her, hoping she would not take offence. Then it hit me. "Sorry for being direct, but, um, are you, are you hitting on me?"
Her face registered shock, denial, resignation in quick succession but then she grinned. "Well, yes alright, you caught me. But you have to understand, this is a place for, you know ..."
Of all the coffee shops in all of London itself, I had to walk into a pick-up joint. I grinned back. "I had no idea, honestly I just came in here for a coffee."
"Oh God I'm so sorry, please don't be offended," she apologized. "Boy am I glad you're not all, like, slapping me and storming out or anything.
Thank you. We get straight girls stumbling in here but usually we can spot them a mile away and leave them well alone."
Not only a pick-up joint, but a
gay pick-up joint. Oh brother.
"I didn't know," I said. Looking around the shop I finally noticed the rainbow flags discretely placed around the entrance and counter area. And I looked more carefully at the other clientele. "Oh."
"What I'm killing myself over is, I've never been wrong in sensing vibes. My radar must have been off but I was getting the correct signals from you. I'm really really sorry for hassling you. Will you believe me if I say I'm a poor representative from Britain? I don't want you to get the wrong impression," she pleaded.
I laughed heartily. She looked perplexed.
"Your radar wasn't all off, it was only half off. It's ok, your reputation is saved," I said. "And I'm not offended."
"So if you're not here to meet new ... ohhh," the lightbulb finally popped on in her head. "I see."
"I'm flattered, really. But I'm, um, kinda unavailable. Totally unavailable," I said.
"Gotcha," she was silent for a long moment, then finished her coffee in one gulp and stood up. "It's been real nice talking to you and I would've wanted to continue our discussion but it's been badly scuppered by the foot I stuffed into my mouth, I'm going off to salvage what's left of my wounded pride now. Enjoy the rest of your stay, I mean it."
I returned the smile. "Nice to meet you too. And, good luck tonight."
Finally I was alone, but I kept thinking back at the conversation with the girl. She was asking me out. Me, shy wall-flower Tara, got asked out by a nice English girl. Who must have thought me somewhat attractive, wow. Freaky-Tara never got asked anything, let alone out, in high school and I met Willow freshman year. This was a new experience.
"I'm sorry to bother you again, are you sure? I mean, you're so beautiful and mesmerizing and I'm embarrassing myself again but are you sure you don't want to come to the gig tonight? No strings, just have a good time. Bring your other half. I'd totally want to see you there," she gushed, having returned without my noticing.
I gave her a half-smile, one raised eye-brow and our eyes met. No need for words.
"Ok, loud and clear. I'm outta here. Bye," she made a rather undignified exit.
I was deciding on whether to get another drink when a shadow fell over the table and a red-headed shape plonked herself down next to me.
I groaned and was ready for a retort. "Look, I—"
I stopped myself as I realized it was another redhead. My redhead, whose hair shone brighter than any flame and whose mere presence brought shivers to my entire being.
"All done. No more work for, well, for a while anyway," her voice, as music chimed inside my ears.
"Will, how much do you want me?" I breathed.
"Want you? Always and forever, Baby. Nothing compares. Now, what brought this on? It's me isn't it? I'm being all worker girl-y and ignoring you."
I threw my arms round her and kissed her hard and long, the sort of kiss we never brought out of the bedroom. She was initially taken by surprise by the publicness but it didn't take her long to melt into our embrace.
It was going to be a wonderful day, a wonderful night and a wonderful life.
*****
The End