Bad Romance. [1/?]
Title: Bad Romance
Chapter: One
Characters: Eimear [Pronounced "Ee-mer"] O'Donnell, Ville Valo, etc.
Summary: Irish girl, Finnish heart.
Disclaimer: I don't own the people (except Eimear. She's mine bitches). Just the words.
"Hey Handsome!"
"Good evening Sweetheart!"
"The usual?"
"Of course."
"Take a seat, I'll be right over."
It was now mid-March, and the gentleman who she'd had the run-in with in December had since become a regular. Every evening at exactly half past five, he'd stroll in, a cheeky smirk on his face as he made his way to the till. She was somewhat sure he didn't just come in for the hot chocolate (she'd tried it, it wasn't all that special), but he seemed to drink so much of it lately, she was almost sure the stuff had replaced his bloodstream. He would sit in the corner and read for hours on end, or sometimes scrawl in a tiny notebook, a smirk on his face and a glint in his eye as he did so.
Every so often she'd catch him gazing at her, but if she was truly honest, it was only because she was (not so) subtly staring at him and wishing he'd just tell her his name...
The machine suddenly beeped, rousing her from her reverie, and announcing that the milk was now warm enough to make the beverage, which she promptly did, before carefully carrying it to his usual table.
"One hot chocolate. Can I get you anything else?"
"Oh, a piece of that pie would be nice, if you wouldn't mind?" He asked, pointing vaguely back towards the bar as he set his book down to sip at his drink.
"Of course. Feeling adventurous today?"
"Just a little. I'm in the mood for something a bit more exotic. Need to get the creative juices running..." He blushed and looked down. "Well at least it sounded better in my head."
Eimear laughed. "It's okay. I'll go get it now. Be right back"
She returned with the promised pie and set it in front of him, before settling down on the seat opposite. "So, this is unusual."
"What is?" He replied, feigning confusion.
"You never have anything other than the hot chocolate. Except on Mondays when you have a flake with it, and on Thursdays when you have whip and 'mallows."
"And you never sit at the tables"
"Touche. What of it?"
"You know when you act more ballsy, your Irish accent shines through"
Eimear slapped a hand to her mouth as her eyes widened and she leaned back. "How did you know that? You don't even know my name!"
In the meantime, Eimear failed to notice that they'd shifted from speaking in Finnish into speaking in English. In fact, the charming man spoke in almost prep-boy perfect English. "I also know you did the painting of the two dancers over there, the woman with the rose there, and the woman lying on the sofa. So go on then, humour me. What's your name?"
"Eimear"
"Beautiful name"
"I hate it. What about yours?"
"Ville"
And then it all clicked. The eyes she'd seen countless times on the covers of magazines, why he sat in the corner and scrawled relentlessly in his little notebook. Why there seemed to be more and more teenagers than ever in the cafe. He was a singer. Not only a singer, but a singer of some chart topping Finnish band that she'd stupidly forgotten the name of. She was almost sure she'd bopped around her little studio painting to the music he'd made.
"So it's you. Might I ask, why is your English so good?"
"Oh...I sing in English," he replied, blushing slightly.
"Well Ville, for three months of skirting around telling me your name, I think you owe me a drink"
"Just one?"
"Just one."
"Well you see Eimear, the pie, my dear, was a thinly veiled guise to get to talk to you and ask you out to dinner. If you'd like of course. I mean you don't have to, and I'd hate to put any pres-"
She placed her finger on his lips, stopping him rambling. "I'd love to. Tomorrow night? After my shift?"
He nodded and sighed. "Thank you. At least I can be sure you won't stand me up"
"As if I would! Cheeky chops!"
"Hey, you're Irish, your lot will take any free drink!"
Gasping, she stood up and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. "You better watch it Handsome"
Chapter: One
Characters: Eimear [Pronounced "Ee-mer"] O'Donnell, Ville Valo, etc.
Summary: Irish girl, Finnish heart.
Disclaimer: I don't own the people (except Eimear. She's mine bitches). Just the words.
"Hey Handsome!"
"Good evening Sweetheart!"
"The usual?"
"Of course."
"Take a seat, I'll be right over."
It was now mid-March, and the gentleman who she'd had the run-in with in December had since become a regular. Every evening at exactly half past five, he'd stroll in, a cheeky smirk on his face as he made his way to the till. She was somewhat sure he didn't just come in for the hot chocolate (she'd tried it, it wasn't all that special), but he seemed to drink so much of it lately, she was almost sure the stuff had replaced his bloodstream. He would sit in the corner and read for hours on end, or sometimes scrawl in a tiny notebook, a smirk on his face and a glint in his eye as he did so.
Every so often she'd catch him gazing at her, but if she was truly honest, it was only because she was (not so) subtly staring at him and wishing he'd just tell her his name...
The machine suddenly beeped, rousing her from her reverie, and announcing that the milk was now warm enough to make the beverage, which she promptly did, before carefully carrying it to his usual table.
"One hot chocolate. Can I get you anything else?"
"Oh, a piece of that pie would be nice, if you wouldn't mind?" He asked, pointing vaguely back towards the bar as he set his book down to sip at his drink.
"Of course. Feeling adventurous today?"
"Just a little. I'm in the mood for something a bit more exotic. Need to get the creative juices running..." He blushed and looked down. "Well at least it sounded better in my head."
Eimear laughed. "It's okay. I'll go get it now. Be right back"
She returned with the promised pie and set it in front of him, before settling down on the seat opposite. "So, this is unusual."
"What is?" He replied, feigning confusion.
"You never have anything other than the hot chocolate. Except on Mondays when you have a flake with it, and on Thursdays when you have whip and 'mallows."
"And you never sit at the tables"
"Touche. What of it?"
"You know when you act more ballsy, your Irish accent shines through"
Eimear slapped a hand to her mouth as her eyes widened and she leaned back. "How did you know that? You don't even know my name!"
In the meantime, Eimear failed to notice that they'd shifted from speaking in Finnish into speaking in English. In fact, the charming man spoke in almost prep-boy perfect English. "I also know you did the painting of the two dancers over there, the woman with the rose there, and the woman lying on the sofa. So go on then, humour me. What's your name?"
"Eimear"
"Beautiful name"
"I hate it. What about yours?"
"Ville"
And then it all clicked. The eyes she'd seen countless times on the covers of magazines, why he sat in the corner and scrawled relentlessly in his little notebook. Why there seemed to be more and more teenagers than ever in the cafe. He was a singer. Not only a singer, but a singer of some chart topping Finnish band that she'd stupidly forgotten the name of. She was almost sure she'd bopped around her little studio painting to the music he'd made.
"So it's you. Might I ask, why is your English so good?"
"Oh...I sing in English," he replied, blushing slightly.
"Well Ville, for three months of skirting around telling me your name, I think you owe me a drink"
"Just one?"
"Just one."
"Well you see Eimear, the pie, my dear, was a thinly veiled guise to get to talk to you and ask you out to dinner. If you'd like of course. I mean you don't have to, and I'd hate to put any pres-"
She placed her finger on his lips, stopping him rambling. "I'd love to. Tomorrow night? After my shift?"
He nodded and sighed. "Thank you. At least I can be sure you won't stand me up"
"As if I would! Cheeky chops!"
"Hey, you're Irish, your lot will take any free drink!"
Gasping, she stood up and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. "You better watch it Handsome"