Hot Coffee Part 32
Title: Hot Coffee Part 32
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
Author's note: Sorry about the delay, folks. I'm afraid there may also be a short delay between this chapter and the next, as I'm going to be in the US for a games convention next week.
I’m not *quite* late for my shift, but it’s a close run thing. The only reason I’m not is that I gave in and took the bus, rather than walking. It wasn’t actually the film itself - if I’d set off as soon as it finished, I would have got here in plenty of time, even walking. The problem was that we got distracted by discussing it afterwards, and time just flew by.
Still, I’m not actually late, so I can’t really bring myself to mind all that much. (I’m not sure I’d mind even if I had been late. Well, I would’ve *minded*; of course I would. Being late is terribly rude, and I’m too much my mother’s daughter not to mind about that sort of thing. But I think I *might* have thought that it was worth being late for. Maybe. It’s a moot point, anyway.)
“I told you I’d get you here on time,” Daenerys says from beside me.
I glance over at her as we head towards Hot Coffee, marvelling at the picture of calm self-assurance she presents. To look at her, you’d never know that she was sobbing on my shoulder a mere few hours ago. It’s amazing what a difference a change of clothes and a little make-up can make. And willpower, of course. I suspect that’s a large part of what’s keeping her mask in place right now. I mean, talking to me did seem to make her feel better, but it couldn’t just erase all the pain of those horrible memories. How could it? So she may be ‘better’, but she’s not completely, one hundred per cent *fine*.
Although I’m not sure anyone but me would be able to tell that.
(Not that I’m particularly skilled at reading people or anything but, well, I know her. Even more so now she’s shared some of her secrets with me. Anyway, it doesn’t require any great insight to know that someone doesn’t recover so completely from being that upset in so short a time.)
“You did,” I acknowledge belatedly, dragging myself from my thoughts to give her a smile. “Although,” I continue, my tone lightly teasing. “No offence, but I’d still have taken been late over riding pillion on your bike.”
She laughs. “Well, I wasn’t being *entirely* serious with that offer. Not unless you get a set of your own cycle leathers, anyway. Safety first!” Her smile dims a little, and I wince inside at my gaucheness. But she did make the offer… “Anyway,” she continues, dialling up the wattage again. “I thought you liked that test ride.”
“I did,” I say, still half-shocked that I can not only say that but actually *mean* it. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t terrifying. I’m definitely not ready for anything other than quiet side-streets just yet.”
I can only describe the look she gives me then as ‘complicated.’ There are layers there; layers within layers. Surprise, definitely. Maybe… thoughtful consideration? And in her eyes, something warm…
“So does that mean you’re willing to give it another go?”
I blink, turning the question over in my mind.
“Yes,” I say, and even I can hear the slightly startled note in that single word. “I suppose I am.”
“Well then,” she says, sounding pleased. “We’ll start your lessons in the new year.”
“Lessons?” I repeat, and her smile turns distinctly mischievous.
“Yes,” she says brightly. “Why do this half-way? What’s the point in only learning how to be a passenger?”
She wants to teach me to… drive? Pilot? Ride? Ride. She wants to teach me to ride a motorcycle. Her motorcycle. I… genuinely don’t know how I feel about that. Terrified, I guess? I mean, my heart’s beating faster, and I can’t quite get my breath, and there’s a strange twisting feeling in my chest. If that’s not terror, what else could it be? And yet…
And yet.
“Okay,” I say, but the word emerges as little more than a breathy whisper. I can barely even hear myself, so I clear my throat and try again. “Okay,” I say, still a little wobbly, but less so than I would have expected.
Daenerys’ answering smile could light up the whole world.
Yep. Definitely terrified. Utterly, absolutely, completely terrified.
But also… happy? Excited? Strangely… anticipatory?
(And warmed through and through, as if she really is the sun to my moon.)
I make a mental note to apply for my provisional driving license at the earliest opportunity.
“Great,” she says, still smiling, and I smile helplessly back.
It’s almost a shock to realise that we’re standing at the door to the coffee shop. While I’m trying to get my thoughts in gear, Daenerys reaches out and opens it.
“After you,” she says.
“Thanks, but I have to go round the back,” I say regretfully. “Mr Baelish is in today, and he doesn’t like it when we come in through the front. Plus, I have to get changed.” I can’t help grimacing.
“You could have gotten changed at my place,” Daenerys says. “I should have suggested it.”
I open my mouth to explain about the seasonal uniform, and how I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside Hot Coffee - not to mention the fact that I’d likely freeze to death - but the words stick in my throat. In the end, all I say is:
“It’s okay. It won’t take me long.” She’ll find out soon enough, anyway. Assuming she doesn’t already know. “I’ll see you inside.”
* * * * *
Despite my reluctance, knowing that Daenerys is out there waiting for me makes me hurry through getting changed. This mainly consists of stripping off the skirt and jumper I put on over my ridiculously tiny shorts and blouse, putting on the awkward belt, and attempting to tie on that bloody stupid neckerchief-thing without choking myself. I force myself to quickly check the finished result in the mirror, mainly to make sure that nothing’s popped open. Not that this outfit could really get much more indecent. I suppress a shudder at the the garishly bright colours, turning away from the mirror with some relief.
Right.
Once more unto the breach, then.
I tie on my apron like I’m donning armour (oh, if only!) and head out into the coffee shop.
My first impression is one of utter chaos. The place is utterly rammed, some people even standing around with mugs in their hands, waiting to pounce on any available seat. I spot Daenerys in the queue, but I don’t think she sees me. I think she’s checking her phone. The queue itself stretches almost all the way to the door, snaking between tables and patrons.
Wow.
I don’t think it’s ever been this packed. No wonder Mr Baelish wanted as many of us on duty as possible.
Part of me whimpers a little at the thought of so many pairs of eyes on me. I try to console myself with the thought that none of them are really likely to care all that much. Most people don’t seem to have the same modesty issues I do. And, anyway, there are so many other under-dressed women around for them to notice, all of them way more attractive than me. I’m sure I’ll just fade into the background next to them.
Actually, that’s a good point. There are an awful lot of good-looking girls working here. I wonder if… No; he couldn’t have. Could he? I mean, surely that’s not even legal. Not unless the job involves modelling or something. I’m probably just being paranoid.
Anyway, Mr Baelish *can’t* just have chosen baristas based on looks. I mean, he chose me.
(Although several people have said that they think I’m… pretty. Unless they’re just being polite. But *Daenerys* said it, and I don’t doubt that she means it, so…)
Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now. I have work to do!
Ygritte and Asha are manning the tills and Missandei is bussing tables. I join a very harried-looking Shae at the coffee machine. She gives me a quick, somewhat distracted smile.
“Can you please take Asha’s orders?” are the first words she says to me.
“Of course,” I reply.
We work in silence, the sheer volume of orders requiring us to have to have our full attention on the task at hand. Luckily, most of the drinks are straightforward enough. (Although I am keeping half an eye out for a complicated concoction of syrups accompanied by specific pouring instructions that can only have been requested by one person in particular.) The queue seems to be moving at a reasonable clip, but it is very long. There are are quite a few orders to go before Daenerys reaches the tills.
“Medium cappuccino for Mike,” I call out, setting the drink on the counter. Someone - ‘Mike,’ presumably - comes up to take the drink.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, already heading back to my workstation.
“Hey, wait!”
I freeze. Is there something wrong? Did I make a mistake with the order? I turn back to the customer.
“Yes?” I say, sounding as worried as I feel. “Is something wrong with your coffee?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Yes, there is.”
I wait a moment, but he doesn’t show any signs of elaborating. He just looks at me with a weird kind of smirk on his face, like he’s expecting something. Oh, I don’t have time for this! Sighing inwardly, I ask the question he so-obviously wants me to ask.
“What seems to be the trouble?” I try to sound pleasant, even though I feel like gritting my teeth. “I’m sorry if it’s not up to standard. I can make you another one if you like.”
“Oh, the coffee’s fine,” he says, and it’s a *very* good job he continues talking right away. If there was enough of a pause for me to get a word in, I would be sorely tempted to say something the both of us would regret. Like: if the coffee is fine, what on earth is he doing wasting my time? Especially when we’re so darn busy! (Even the little voice in the back of my mind that would normally be babbling apologies by now is mostly just peeved. That’s… unusual.) Anyway… “But I didn’t get a smile!”
I just look at him, completely gone out.
He… what?
No, I really don’t have time for this.
I scrape up something that I hope counts as sufficiently smile-like (even though there’s a part of me that feels more like snarling).
“I’m glad you’re happy with your coffee. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’m very busy…”
I’m starting to turn away almost before I’ve finished speaking, hoping I haven’t fallen too far behind with the ever-increasing stack of orders. I think Mike says something else, but I pretend I don’t hear him. Maybe it’s a little rude of me, but for once I barely feel so much as a pang of guilt. I really don’t have time to stand around chatting at the moment. (And, honestly, if I did, I’d rather spend that time talking to Daenerys than to some random guy who tries to get my attention by telling me my coffee’s bad when it isn’t.)
In any event, the interruption is soon driven out of my mind as I concentrate on working through the orders at something like a reasonable pace. I fancy I’m not doing a bad job of keeping up, settling into a rhythm that means I can have the next drink on the go as I hand previous one out. Rinse and repeat.
It’s actually a little hypnotic.
I reach up to pull the next order off the board, startled a little out of my semi-daze at the sheer unlikeliness of the syrup combinations. Unless I miss my guess… Sure enough, I glance up to see Daenerys giving me the *strangest* look as she makes her way around to the collection side of the counter. It’s kind of… startled? Awkward? Embarrassed?
Oh god. The Christmas uniform! I’ve been so busy I think I’d actually forgotten I was wearing it, but now I’ve remembered it’s difficult to notice anything else. She must be *so* embarrassed for me. Heaven knows I’m embarrassed enough for myself. But why is she looking so startled *now*? She must have noticed Ygritte at least. Then again, Asha is wearing the normal uniform, Shae’s been stuck behind the coffee machine and Missandei’s hidden somewhere in the crowd. Maybe she thought it was just Ygritte being Ygritte. Maybe she didn’t realise I’d be (barely) wearing it too…
I bet she thinks I look *awful*.
She seems to shake herself then, and any trace of awkwardness is gone as if it never even existed, replaced by a smile I find myself returning, helplessly, despite my discomfort. I try to push away the sudden bout of self-consciousness, to regain my previous state of calm efficiency as I retrieve everything I need for Daenerys’ order.
Let’s see: white chocolate, peppermint, cinnamon, vanilla, whipped cream…
“That’s better.” My view of Daenerys is abruptly eclipsed by Mike, who pushes in front of her without so much as a by your leave. “You should smile more often. It makes you look really pretty.”
“Um, thanks,” I mutter, not knowing what else to say. I look down at what I’m doing, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me to it, but not before I see the glare that Daenerys levels at the back of his head.
Wow.
That’s really quite impressive. I’m almost surprised his skin doesn’t blister under the force of it, but he remains happily oblivious. I try to keep my amusement from showing on my face. It might give the wrong idea. Especially since he’s still loitering there by the counter, like he’s waiting for something. Surely he hasn’t finished his cappuccino already? It all becomes clear when Asha strides past me to deposit a plate on the counter, calling out:
“Ham and mushroom panini for Mike.”
I half-wonder (half-hope) he’s going to complain about *her* lack of smile, but he collects his food without any more than a muttered: “Thanks.” I… think that’s probably for the best. (I guess he possesses a survival instinct and at least some rudimentary social awareness. Okay, maybe that last part is a little mean-spirited of me.) Thankfully, he heads back to his seat now, but not without exhorting me to: “Keep smiling, Cutie.”
Ugh.
But maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe he’s trying to be nice, and is just a little awkward about it. In that case, it’s probably a little unreasonable to feel irritated with him. Anyway, it’s a moot point now.
I quickly finish up Daenerys’ coffee concoction and hand it to her.
“One Snow Bomb,” I tell her, smiling.
Yes, unlike Mike, her drink does come with a smile. But that’s because she’s my friend - smiling just comes naturally when I see her. It’s not something I have to actively think about. I usually do try to smile at all the customers, as per the shop policy, but when the place frantic like this, it just seems like too much effort. Oh well.
Daenerys laughs.
“I do like the names you come up with for my orders,” she says.
“I’m glad.” I really wish I could chat to her a bit, but… “I’m afraid I have to get back to this,” I tell her, apologetically.
“Of course,” she says, cheerfully enough that I’m not in the slightest bit worried that she thinks I’m being rude. “I’ll try to find somewhere to perch.”
My imagination immediately paints a picture of a glittering silver dragon perching upon a mountain-top. Somewhat improbably, it has a coffee mug clutched delicately in its claws.
I… think my mind can be a strange place, sometimes. But the image amuses me as I make drink after drink after drink. Maybe I’ll write a story about it. A short, silly story about a coffee-drinking dragon. Instead of gold, it could curl up on a pile of beans, and instead of a princesses it kidnaps a barista who comes to steal some of the legendary beans… Okay, maybe that’s getting a little too silly. Anyway, I should probably try to finish the story I’m working on at the moment before starting something new. Even if I do seem to have stalled on it for the time being.
Although… Taking a little break from it could help me recover my inspiration. I guess I could give it a go and see how it goes. Wait a minute. That gives me an idea…
The crowd does start to thin out a little after a while, helped by the fact that quite a few customers are ordering their drinks to go. I notice that Daenerys manages to snag herself a seat at some point, although she does end up sharing a table with a trio of students who actually seem to be trying to do some work. Why they’d choose Hot Coffee over a library or one of their homes, I really have no idea. The atmosphere in here tonight is really not at all conducive to studying, I would have thought. Although they seem to be spending more time arguing heatedly than actually working.
Oh well. Each to their own.
There’s a brief lull while five or so people try to order as a group, managing to confuse themselves thoroughly in the process. Asha seems decidedly unimpressed with their shenanigans. Knowing that this is only the calm before the storm, I take advantage of the respite to stretch, rub my aching neck and remind myself that I really should try to remember not to hunch over my workstation. I tell myself that every time, and every time I find myself doing the exact same thing. My posture is fine when I’m sitting, but whenever I stand for any length of time, I always end up hunching over.
(Too many years trying to make myself smaller than I am. Too much time trying to shrink away from the world. Old habits can be hard to break, but I am trying.)
“You’re not smiling again.” I actually jump a little at the sound of Mike’s voice, a little closer than I was expecting. He’s leaning on the counter, watching me stretch. I immediately stop what I’m doing, far too self-conscious to continue under his scrutiny. Part of me wants to apologise for not smiling. I smother it into silence. “Don’t stop on my account,” he continues, and he *is* smiling, in a way that makes me profoundly uncomfortable, as he looks me up and down. “I was enjoying the view.”
“Um…” I cross my arms in front of my chest, not having the first clue what to say. In the end, I ignore his words in favour of a neutral: “Are you waiting for a drink?”
I glance over at Shae, but she’s busy filling what seems to be a small forest of cups. I think about offering to help, but she seems to have everything under control. Anyway, by the looks of things, I’m going to have my own forest of cups to fill shortly.
“No. I just thought I’d come and say hello, since you don’t seem to be doing anything right now.”
“Oh.” My hands itch to start tidying or something; anything to look busy. But I don’t want to be rude. “Um, hello.”
Ingrained habit gives me the urge to dredge up a polite smile, but without consciously meaning to, I find myself resisting. (I find myself resenting his repeated exhortations to smile. How is the expression on my face any concern of his? I’m not some sort of… of performing monkey! But I’m probably overreacting.) I glance over at the gaggle of people at Asha’s till, noting that she’s actually starting to write something down on the order pad. I guess they must finally have made up their minds. (I can’t help feeling relieved that I’m about to have an obvious excuse for breaking off this awkward interaction with Mike.)
“Hey, don’t look away. I thought we were having a conversation.”
Part of me wants to cringe at the sudden irritation in his voice. (Part of me bristles. I feel a sudden, ridiculous urge to draw myself up to my full height and look down at him.) I shrug instead.
“I’m afraid it looks like I’m about to have another batch of orders to deal with,” I tell him, barely even able to sound like I regret it.
“Then I guess we’d better make the most of the time we have,” he says, his smile widening. He pauses, like he’s expecting me to say something, but I just look at him. I’m peripherally aware that Daenerys is getting to her feet; that Shae is glancing over at us. “I really love that Christmas uniform,” he says after a moment, his gaze sliding over me again. “I think you should wear it all year round.”
“God, I hope not,” I blurt out, then blush at my unprofessionalism. “I mean,” I correct myself. “I much prefer our normal uniform.”
“Are you kidding? This one’s much better! And it certainly looks great on *you*.” He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes me want to flee for the back room. My stomach twists with nervous tension, and I just don’t know what he *wants* from me. Can’t he see I’m not interested in having a conversation with him? (Even if he’s genuinely trying to be nice right now, who’s to say he won’t turn nasty if I ask him to leave me alone?) Make him go away. Please, please make him go away. But no matter how fervent my wishing, he remains exactly where he is. And his smile’s fading now, starting to become more of a frown. “Well? I just paid you a compliment. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
“Thanks,” I mutter. I don’t feel complimented. I feel like livestock being appraised. That feeling helps me stick to my resolution not to smile.
“You’re welcome!” he says, once more back to cheer. “Now, how about that smile?”
Asha is ringing up her orders now, glancing over here with a frown. Shae and Ygritte also seem to be paying attention. Daenerys is threading her way through the crowd towards me, her expression best described as determined. The sight of them grounds me, the unsettled roiling of my stomach easing a little, although it doesn’t subside completely.
“I’m afraid I have to get back to work,” I tell him, politely. (But still unsmiling.) “Excuse me.” I start to turn away, but Mike leans over the counter and actually grabs hold of my wrist.
“Hey! I thought we were having a conversation here.”
I freeze.
It’s only a loose grip, not tight or hurting or anything (not like *him*), but it’s still his hand. On me. Uninvited.
And I’m terrified.
No, not terrified. Well. Yes, terrified, but not just that. The other thing.
*Livid.*
How *dare* he?
Before I realise I’m going to do it, I find myself pulling my wrist from his grasp and drawing myself up to my full height. I’m actually taller than him, I’m surprised to realise, and for once I’m actually glad of that fact, actively trying to think ‘looming’ thoughts as I look down my nose at him.
“Please don’t do that,” I say flatly, my tone turning it into an order, despite the ‘please.’ “As I said, I really do need to get back to work now. It’s very busy in here, as you can see. I hope the food and drink is to your satisfaction.”
He just stares at me, shocked and silent. Apparently he wasn’t expecting *that*. (For that matter, neither was I. Oh my god. What am I doing? How can I be so rude to a customer? Maybe I should… No. I am *not* apologising to him. *I’m* not the one in the wrong here.) I start to turn away again, hoping that’s be the end of it. Hoping that he’s got the message. Hoping that he’ll now leave me alone like I asked.
Hoping for that, but not really expecting it.
“There’s no need to be such a bitch about it!”
Well, there’s a shock.
(“Stupid bitch!” “Frigid bitch!” “Ugly bitch” “…bitch…” “…bitch…” “…bitch…” It never occurred to me until now just how unimaginative *his* insults really were. I mean, repeating the same word over and over again is just *lazy*.)
“There’s no call for that kind of language,” I say stiffly, wondering what I’m doing continuing to interact with him. I should just ignore him. It’s just a word. I’ve been called worse; much worse. I should… I should…
(I want to say I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’ll do better, I’ll be good. I want to run away and hide. I want to *hit* him.)
He’s flat-out glaring at me now, his face a mask of fury. I start to wonder if he’s actually going to stop at words, but that’s probably just an overreaction. Surely he’s not going to do anything… physical. Not here, not in front of everyone. Not with my friends around. (But what about later, when I’m on my own? He knows where I work…)
“Oh, *I’m* sorry,” he says, and I feel a rush of relief that he’s going for sarcasm rather than a slap. “I take it back. You’re not a bitch. You’re a *cunt*!”
A haze descends over my vision, my pulse thundering in my ears so that I can barely even hear myself when I say:
“Out.”
It doesn’t even sound like me. It sounds like someone fierce and strong-willed; someone used to standing up for herself. Someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed. (I like the way it sounds.)
“What?” he says, laughing like what I’m hearing and what he’s hearing are two completely different things.
(Part of me wants to take it back, say it was nothing. Part of me wants to break a mug over his stupid smirking face.)
“I said: get out.” Why is he even still standing there? I mean: really? “Exit the premises. Now. You’re not welcome here.”
“Nice try,” he sneers. “But you can’t kick me out for trying to talk to you. I’m a paying customer!”
“You *were* a paying customer,” I correct him. “Now, you’re being a nuisance. I am well within my rights to ask you to leave, so that’s what I’m doing.”
He folds his arms, looking mutinous.
“That time of the month, is it?” he says. “Or do you just need to get laid?”
I can’t breathe for a moment, choking on the sheer mass of furious words trying to force their way through my lips. In lieu of speaking, I come out from behind the counter and stride right up to him, only stopping when we’re practically toe to toe. He takes a step backwards - involuntarily, I think - and then glowers up at me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he can say a word.
“It’s time for you to leave now,” I tell him. “Just get your things and go, or I will be forced to escalate this.”
“What does that even mean?” His tone is jeering, mocking, but he seems rattled. Rattled or not, though, he doesn’t show any sign of backing down. And… he actually has a point. What can I do? I’m hardly going to pick him up and drag him out bodily, even if I could, which I doubt. I could tell Mr Baelish, I suppose, but I have the horrible feeling he’d tell me to apologise and make the man a free drink. Which… no. I am *not* apologising. Not this time.
Mike’s sneer broadens when I don’t answer right away, taking on an edge of smug triumph that goes through me like nails on a blackboard. Despair starts to coalesce in my chest; a small, hard lump that seems to sit heavily on my heart. Am I really going to have to back down after finally standing up for myself?
“It means I get to toss you out on your arse,” says Asha. I realise all over again that I’m not alone, and the despair and the panic just seems to melt away. Asha steps up beside me, and she may be shorter, but she’s so much more solid. Anything she lacks in height she more than makes up for in pure intimidation.
“It means we call the police and tell them you’re refusing to leave,” says Shae, and I’ve never heard her voice sound so cold.
“It means you’re barred,” Ygritte says. “Now smile for the camera.” She snaps a picture of Mike on her phone before he can react. “This is going on the wall of shame.”
My courage returning, I stare down at Mike, who’s now looking decidedly less certain of himself.
“As I said: it’s time for you to leave. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
“You can’t do this!” he protests, even as he takes a step backwards. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” With a start, I realise that he actually seems to believe that. Like it’s normal to demand that a complete stranger smile for you, regardless of how she feels about it. Like it’s normal to physically grab someone when she tries to politely extricate herself from a conversation she never wanted in the first place. Like it’s *normal* to resort to insults and name-calling just because she doesn’t capitulate to your whims.
Like *I’m* the one in the wrong here.
Could I be overreacting? Could I have provoked him somehow? Could-
“Oh, *do* make it harder. Please.” Daenerys’ voice pulls me out of my spiral, giving me something to focus on. She sounds fiercely, darkly amused. “I’m looking forward to seeing if Asha can beat her previous distance record for the dickweed discus.”
That phrase… doesn’t sound at all like something I’d expect from Daenerys. But I’m almost more surprised when Asha laughs heartily.
“Surprised you remember that.”
“It was… *memorable*,” Daenerys murmurs.
Asha eyes Mike speculatively. “I think he’s skinnier than the last one.”
“I think you’re right.” Daenerys grins, her expression startlingly like Asha’s. “That means he should go further.”
Mike looks from one of them to the other, paling visibly.
“You can’t… You won’t… If you lay a hand on me, I’ll go to the police! I’ll… I’ll sue!”
Asha raises an eyebrow. “Looks like I’d better make it count then.” She makes a move towards Mike, who backs away, shaking his head.
“You bitches are crazy! And, anyway, the coffee here sucks.” Asha twitches again, and he practically bolts, snatching up his things and making for the door.
“And don’t come back,” Asha calls after him.
Apparently unwilling to let her have the last word, he pauses in the doorway to shout: “Dykes!” before fleeing into the night.
What a classy guy.
There’s a sudden outburst of clapping and cheering from the other customers, startling me. I blush, naturally.
Asha grins and takes a bow. “Nothing to see here, citizens,” she says cheerfully. “Just a common or garden arse-wipe getting what he deserves. Feel free to go about your business.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Shae murmurs. She shakes her head. “And now we really should get back to work. There are orders waiting.”
She suits the action to the words, and I follow her, only realising how wobbly I am when I start to move. I think I might be shaking a little.
“Thanks, all of you,” I say with feeling, turning to include all of them as I start to measure out beans and syrups. “I appreciate you backing me up. I’m sorry for-“
“You stop right there,” Ygritte says sternly. “I heard what he said to you. The guy had it coming.”
“I think the whole shop heard what he said,” Missandei murmurs. I wonder where she came from. “No once could expect you to simply ignore it.”
“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” Shae assures me. “You were perfectly polite to him. He was the one who was out of line.”
“You were a absolutely in the right,” Daenerys says, looking at me with what seems to be a mixture of fondness and pride. “And you were far politer about it than I would’ve been.”
“Not difficult, Dragon,” Asha says, but there’s no bite to the words, and she’s still grinning. “Talk about damning with faint praise.”
“You’re not exactly Miss Manners yourself,” Daenerys retorts, but she sounds amused.
I think this may the most civil they’ve ever been with each other, at least since I’ve known them. I wonder if this means that the bad feelings between them are finally starting to fade. (I wonder at the brief pang that causes in me; something a little tiny bit like… envy? Which is ridiculous. People can and do have more than one close friend. And just because they had a relationship once, that doesn’t mean they’re going to do so again. Not that it would matter even if they did. Even if they did become involved with each other again, I’m sure they’d still be friends with me.)
“Fuck manners,” Asha proclaims. “But, to get back to the subject at hand…” She turns her attention to me. “If you hadn’t given that prick his marching orders, I would’ve done. Customers don’t get to behave like that and still be customers. I would’ve stepped in sooner, but you looked like you had things well in hand.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little overwhelmed by it all. “I think I was doing okay at first, but then he just wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s what back-up’s for,” she says. “But if you do want to learn how to intimidate a motherfucker, I’ll teach you. Or Dany can.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, wondering if I actually *want* to learn how to intimidate a… How to intimidate someone. I think maybe I’d like to learn to be more assertive, at least. I guess I can see how it goes from there.
“Well, as long as you’re okay, I suppose I’d better let you get back to it,” Daenerys says softly, sighing.
“Maybe we can chat when the rush dies down a bit?” I say hopefully, and she rewards me with one of her most brilliant smiles.
“I’d like that.”
And as I once more focus my attention on the act of making coffee, I realise: I’m not feeling wobbly any more. More than that, I think I’m feeling… happy?
I stood up for myself. I stood up for myself and I didn’t back down, not even when my resolve started to waver. I stood up for myself, and my friends backed me up.
I think this must be what triumph feels like.
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys
Author's note: Sorry about the delay, folks. I'm afraid there may also be a short delay between this chapter and the next, as I'm going to be in the US for a games convention next week.
I’m not *quite* late for my shift, but it’s a close run thing. The only reason I’m not is that I gave in and took the bus, rather than walking. It wasn’t actually the film itself - if I’d set off as soon as it finished, I would have got here in plenty of time, even walking. The problem was that we got distracted by discussing it afterwards, and time just flew by.
Still, I’m not actually late, so I can’t really bring myself to mind all that much. (I’m not sure I’d mind even if I had been late. Well, I would’ve *minded*; of course I would. Being late is terribly rude, and I’m too much my mother’s daughter not to mind about that sort of thing. But I think I *might* have thought that it was worth being late for. Maybe. It’s a moot point, anyway.)
“I told you I’d get you here on time,” Daenerys says from beside me.
I glance over at her as we head towards Hot Coffee, marvelling at the picture of calm self-assurance she presents. To look at her, you’d never know that she was sobbing on my shoulder a mere few hours ago. It’s amazing what a difference a change of clothes and a little make-up can make. And willpower, of course. I suspect that’s a large part of what’s keeping her mask in place right now. I mean, talking to me did seem to make her feel better, but it couldn’t just erase all the pain of those horrible memories. How could it? So she may be ‘better’, but she’s not completely, one hundred per cent *fine*.
Although I’m not sure anyone but me would be able to tell that.
(Not that I’m particularly skilled at reading people or anything but, well, I know her. Even more so now she’s shared some of her secrets with me. Anyway, it doesn’t require any great insight to know that someone doesn’t recover so completely from being that upset in so short a time.)
“You did,” I acknowledge belatedly, dragging myself from my thoughts to give her a smile. “Although,” I continue, my tone lightly teasing. “No offence, but I’d still have taken been late over riding pillion on your bike.”
She laughs. “Well, I wasn’t being *entirely* serious with that offer. Not unless you get a set of your own cycle leathers, anyway. Safety first!” Her smile dims a little, and I wince inside at my gaucheness. But she did make the offer… “Anyway,” she continues, dialling up the wattage again. “I thought you liked that test ride.”
“I did,” I say, still half-shocked that I can not only say that but actually *mean* it. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t terrifying. I’m definitely not ready for anything other than quiet side-streets just yet.”
I can only describe the look she gives me then as ‘complicated.’ There are layers there; layers within layers. Surprise, definitely. Maybe… thoughtful consideration? And in her eyes, something warm…
“So does that mean you’re willing to give it another go?”
I blink, turning the question over in my mind.
“Yes,” I say, and even I can hear the slightly startled note in that single word. “I suppose I am.”
“Well then,” she says, sounding pleased. “We’ll start your lessons in the new year.”
“Lessons?” I repeat, and her smile turns distinctly mischievous.
“Yes,” she says brightly. “Why do this half-way? What’s the point in only learning how to be a passenger?”
She wants to teach me to… drive? Pilot? Ride? Ride. She wants to teach me to ride a motorcycle. Her motorcycle. I… genuinely don’t know how I feel about that. Terrified, I guess? I mean, my heart’s beating faster, and I can’t quite get my breath, and there’s a strange twisting feeling in my chest. If that’s not terror, what else could it be? And yet…
And yet.
“Okay,” I say, but the word emerges as little more than a breathy whisper. I can barely even hear myself, so I clear my throat and try again. “Okay,” I say, still a little wobbly, but less so than I would have expected.
Daenerys’ answering smile could light up the whole world.
Yep. Definitely terrified. Utterly, absolutely, completely terrified.
But also… happy? Excited? Strangely… anticipatory?
(And warmed through and through, as if she really is the sun to my moon.)
I make a mental note to apply for my provisional driving license at the earliest opportunity.
“Great,” she says, still smiling, and I smile helplessly back.
It’s almost a shock to realise that we’re standing at the door to the coffee shop. While I’m trying to get my thoughts in gear, Daenerys reaches out and opens it.
“After you,” she says.
“Thanks, but I have to go round the back,” I say regretfully. “Mr Baelish is in today, and he doesn’t like it when we come in through the front. Plus, I have to get changed.” I can’t help grimacing.
“You could have gotten changed at my place,” Daenerys says. “I should have suggested it.”
I open my mouth to explain about the seasonal uniform, and how I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside Hot Coffee - not to mention the fact that I’d likely freeze to death - but the words stick in my throat. In the end, all I say is:
“It’s okay. It won’t take me long.” She’ll find out soon enough, anyway. Assuming she doesn’t already know. “I’ll see you inside.”
* * * * *
Despite my reluctance, knowing that Daenerys is out there waiting for me makes me hurry through getting changed. This mainly consists of stripping off the skirt and jumper I put on over my ridiculously tiny shorts and blouse, putting on the awkward belt, and attempting to tie on that bloody stupid neckerchief-thing without choking myself. I force myself to quickly check the finished result in the mirror, mainly to make sure that nothing’s popped open. Not that this outfit could really get much more indecent. I suppress a shudder at the the garishly bright colours, turning away from the mirror with some relief.
Right.
Once more unto the breach, then.
I tie on my apron like I’m donning armour (oh, if only!) and head out into the coffee shop.
My first impression is one of utter chaos. The place is utterly rammed, some people even standing around with mugs in their hands, waiting to pounce on any available seat. I spot Daenerys in the queue, but I don’t think she sees me. I think she’s checking her phone. The queue itself stretches almost all the way to the door, snaking between tables and patrons.
Wow.
I don’t think it’s ever been this packed. No wonder Mr Baelish wanted as many of us on duty as possible.
Part of me whimpers a little at the thought of so many pairs of eyes on me. I try to console myself with the thought that none of them are really likely to care all that much. Most people don’t seem to have the same modesty issues I do. And, anyway, there are so many other under-dressed women around for them to notice, all of them way more attractive than me. I’m sure I’ll just fade into the background next to them.
Actually, that’s a good point. There are an awful lot of good-looking girls working here. I wonder if… No; he couldn’t have. Could he? I mean, surely that’s not even legal. Not unless the job involves modelling or something. I’m probably just being paranoid.
Anyway, Mr Baelish *can’t* just have chosen baristas based on looks. I mean, he chose me.
(Although several people have said that they think I’m… pretty. Unless they’re just being polite. But *Daenerys* said it, and I don’t doubt that she means it, so…)
Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now. I have work to do!
Ygritte and Asha are manning the tills and Missandei is bussing tables. I join a very harried-looking Shae at the coffee machine. She gives me a quick, somewhat distracted smile.
“Can you please take Asha’s orders?” are the first words she says to me.
“Of course,” I reply.
We work in silence, the sheer volume of orders requiring us to have to have our full attention on the task at hand. Luckily, most of the drinks are straightforward enough. (Although I am keeping half an eye out for a complicated concoction of syrups accompanied by specific pouring instructions that can only have been requested by one person in particular.) The queue seems to be moving at a reasonable clip, but it is very long. There are are quite a few orders to go before Daenerys reaches the tills.
“Medium cappuccino for Mike,” I call out, setting the drink on the counter. Someone - ‘Mike,’ presumably - comes up to take the drink.
“Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, already heading back to my workstation.
“Hey, wait!”
I freeze. Is there something wrong? Did I make a mistake with the order? I turn back to the customer.
“Yes?” I say, sounding as worried as I feel. “Is something wrong with your coffee?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Yes, there is.”
I wait a moment, but he doesn’t show any signs of elaborating. He just looks at me with a weird kind of smirk on his face, like he’s expecting something. Oh, I don’t have time for this! Sighing inwardly, I ask the question he so-obviously wants me to ask.
“What seems to be the trouble?” I try to sound pleasant, even though I feel like gritting my teeth. “I’m sorry if it’s not up to standard. I can make you another one if you like.”
“Oh, the coffee’s fine,” he says, and it’s a *very* good job he continues talking right away. If there was enough of a pause for me to get a word in, I would be sorely tempted to say something the both of us would regret. Like: if the coffee is fine, what on earth is he doing wasting my time? Especially when we’re so darn busy! (Even the little voice in the back of my mind that would normally be babbling apologies by now is mostly just peeved. That’s… unusual.) Anyway… “But I didn’t get a smile!”
I just look at him, completely gone out.
He… what?
No, I really don’t have time for this.
I scrape up something that I hope counts as sufficiently smile-like (even though there’s a part of me that feels more like snarling).
“I’m glad you’re happy with your coffee. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’m very busy…”
I’m starting to turn away almost before I’ve finished speaking, hoping I haven’t fallen too far behind with the ever-increasing stack of orders. I think Mike says something else, but I pretend I don’t hear him. Maybe it’s a little rude of me, but for once I barely feel so much as a pang of guilt. I really don’t have time to stand around chatting at the moment. (And, honestly, if I did, I’d rather spend that time talking to Daenerys than to some random guy who tries to get my attention by telling me my coffee’s bad when it isn’t.)
In any event, the interruption is soon driven out of my mind as I concentrate on working through the orders at something like a reasonable pace. I fancy I’m not doing a bad job of keeping up, settling into a rhythm that means I can have the next drink on the go as I hand previous one out. Rinse and repeat.
It’s actually a little hypnotic.
I reach up to pull the next order off the board, startled a little out of my semi-daze at the sheer unlikeliness of the syrup combinations. Unless I miss my guess… Sure enough, I glance up to see Daenerys giving me the *strangest* look as she makes her way around to the collection side of the counter. It’s kind of… startled? Awkward? Embarrassed?
Oh god. The Christmas uniform! I’ve been so busy I think I’d actually forgotten I was wearing it, but now I’ve remembered it’s difficult to notice anything else. She must be *so* embarrassed for me. Heaven knows I’m embarrassed enough for myself. But why is she looking so startled *now*? She must have noticed Ygritte at least. Then again, Asha is wearing the normal uniform, Shae’s been stuck behind the coffee machine and Missandei’s hidden somewhere in the crowd. Maybe she thought it was just Ygritte being Ygritte. Maybe she didn’t realise I’d be (barely) wearing it too…
I bet she thinks I look *awful*.
She seems to shake herself then, and any trace of awkwardness is gone as if it never even existed, replaced by a smile I find myself returning, helplessly, despite my discomfort. I try to push away the sudden bout of self-consciousness, to regain my previous state of calm efficiency as I retrieve everything I need for Daenerys’ order.
Let’s see: white chocolate, peppermint, cinnamon, vanilla, whipped cream…
“That’s better.” My view of Daenerys is abruptly eclipsed by Mike, who pushes in front of her without so much as a by your leave. “You should smile more often. It makes you look really pretty.”
“Um, thanks,” I mutter, not knowing what else to say. I look down at what I’m doing, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me to it, but not before I see the glare that Daenerys levels at the back of his head.
Wow.
That’s really quite impressive. I’m almost surprised his skin doesn’t blister under the force of it, but he remains happily oblivious. I try to keep my amusement from showing on my face. It might give the wrong idea. Especially since he’s still loitering there by the counter, like he’s waiting for something. Surely he hasn’t finished his cappuccino already? It all becomes clear when Asha strides past me to deposit a plate on the counter, calling out:
“Ham and mushroom panini for Mike.”
I half-wonder (half-hope) he’s going to complain about *her* lack of smile, but he collects his food without any more than a muttered: “Thanks.” I… think that’s probably for the best. (I guess he possesses a survival instinct and at least some rudimentary social awareness. Okay, maybe that last part is a little mean-spirited of me.) Thankfully, he heads back to his seat now, but not without exhorting me to: “Keep smiling, Cutie.”
Ugh.
But maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe he’s trying to be nice, and is just a little awkward about it. In that case, it’s probably a little unreasonable to feel irritated with him. Anyway, it’s a moot point now.
I quickly finish up Daenerys’ coffee concoction and hand it to her.
“One Snow Bomb,” I tell her, smiling.
Yes, unlike Mike, her drink does come with a smile. But that’s because she’s my friend - smiling just comes naturally when I see her. It’s not something I have to actively think about. I usually do try to smile at all the customers, as per the shop policy, but when the place frantic like this, it just seems like too much effort. Oh well.
Daenerys laughs.
“I do like the names you come up with for my orders,” she says.
“I’m glad.” I really wish I could chat to her a bit, but… “I’m afraid I have to get back to this,” I tell her, apologetically.
“Of course,” she says, cheerfully enough that I’m not in the slightest bit worried that she thinks I’m being rude. “I’ll try to find somewhere to perch.”
My imagination immediately paints a picture of a glittering silver dragon perching upon a mountain-top. Somewhat improbably, it has a coffee mug clutched delicately in its claws.
I… think my mind can be a strange place, sometimes. But the image amuses me as I make drink after drink after drink. Maybe I’ll write a story about it. A short, silly story about a coffee-drinking dragon. Instead of gold, it could curl up on a pile of beans, and instead of a princesses it kidnaps a barista who comes to steal some of the legendary beans… Okay, maybe that’s getting a little too silly. Anyway, I should probably try to finish the story I’m working on at the moment before starting something new. Even if I do seem to have stalled on it for the time being.
Although… Taking a little break from it could help me recover my inspiration. I guess I could give it a go and see how it goes. Wait a minute. That gives me an idea…
The crowd does start to thin out a little after a while, helped by the fact that quite a few customers are ordering their drinks to go. I notice that Daenerys manages to snag herself a seat at some point, although she does end up sharing a table with a trio of students who actually seem to be trying to do some work. Why they’d choose Hot Coffee over a library or one of their homes, I really have no idea. The atmosphere in here tonight is really not at all conducive to studying, I would have thought. Although they seem to be spending more time arguing heatedly than actually working.
Oh well. Each to their own.
There’s a brief lull while five or so people try to order as a group, managing to confuse themselves thoroughly in the process. Asha seems decidedly unimpressed with their shenanigans. Knowing that this is only the calm before the storm, I take advantage of the respite to stretch, rub my aching neck and remind myself that I really should try to remember not to hunch over my workstation. I tell myself that every time, and every time I find myself doing the exact same thing. My posture is fine when I’m sitting, but whenever I stand for any length of time, I always end up hunching over.
(Too many years trying to make myself smaller than I am. Too much time trying to shrink away from the world. Old habits can be hard to break, but I am trying.)
“You’re not smiling again.” I actually jump a little at the sound of Mike’s voice, a little closer than I was expecting. He’s leaning on the counter, watching me stretch. I immediately stop what I’m doing, far too self-conscious to continue under his scrutiny. Part of me wants to apologise for not smiling. I smother it into silence. “Don’t stop on my account,” he continues, and he *is* smiling, in a way that makes me profoundly uncomfortable, as he looks me up and down. “I was enjoying the view.”
“Um…” I cross my arms in front of my chest, not having the first clue what to say. In the end, I ignore his words in favour of a neutral: “Are you waiting for a drink?”
I glance over at Shae, but she’s busy filling what seems to be a small forest of cups. I think about offering to help, but she seems to have everything under control. Anyway, by the looks of things, I’m going to have my own forest of cups to fill shortly.
“No. I just thought I’d come and say hello, since you don’t seem to be doing anything right now.”
“Oh.” My hands itch to start tidying or something; anything to look busy. But I don’t want to be rude. “Um, hello.”
Ingrained habit gives me the urge to dredge up a polite smile, but without consciously meaning to, I find myself resisting. (I find myself resenting his repeated exhortations to smile. How is the expression on my face any concern of his? I’m not some sort of… of performing monkey! But I’m probably overreacting.) I glance over at the gaggle of people at Asha’s till, noting that she’s actually starting to write something down on the order pad. I guess they must finally have made up their minds. (I can’t help feeling relieved that I’m about to have an obvious excuse for breaking off this awkward interaction with Mike.)
“Hey, don’t look away. I thought we were having a conversation.”
Part of me wants to cringe at the sudden irritation in his voice. (Part of me bristles. I feel a sudden, ridiculous urge to draw myself up to my full height and look down at him.) I shrug instead.
“I’m afraid it looks like I’m about to have another batch of orders to deal with,” I tell him, barely even able to sound like I regret it.
“Then I guess we’d better make the most of the time we have,” he says, his smile widening. He pauses, like he’s expecting me to say something, but I just look at him. I’m peripherally aware that Daenerys is getting to her feet; that Shae is glancing over at us. “I really love that Christmas uniform,” he says after a moment, his gaze sliding over me again. “I think you should wear it all year round.”
“God, I hope not,” I blurt out, then blush at my unprofessionalism. “I mean,” I correct myself. “I much prefer our normal uniform.”
“Are you kidding? This one’s much better! And it certainly looks great on *you*.” He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes me want to flee for the back room. My stomach twists with nervous tension, and I just don’t know what he *wants* from me. Can’t he see I’m not interested in having a conversation with him? (Even if he’s genuinely trying to be nice right now, who’s to say he won’t turn nasty if I ask him to leave me alone?) Make him go away. Please, please make him go away. But no matter how fervent my wishing, he remains exactly where he is. And his smile’s fading now, starting to become more of a frown. “Well? I just paid you a compliment. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
“Thanks,” I mutter. I don’t feel complimented. I feel like livestock being appraised. That feeling helps me stick to my resolution not to smile.
“You’re welcome!” he says, once more back to cheer. “Now, how about that smile?”
Asha is ringing up her orders now, glancing over here with a frown. Shae and Ygritte also seem to be paying attention. Daenerys is threading her way through the crowd towards me, her expression best described as determined. The sight of them grounds me, the unsettled roiling of my stomach easing a little, although it doesn’t subside completely.
“I’m afraid I have to get back to work,” I tell him, politely. (But still unsmiling.) “Excuse me.” I start to turn away, but Mike leans over the counter and actually grabs hold of my wrist.
“Hey! I thought we were having a conversation here.”
I freeze.
It’s only a loose grip, not tight or hurting or anything (not like *him*), but it’s still his hand. On me. Uninvited.
And I’m terrified.
No, not terrified. Well. Yes, terrified, but not just that. The other thing.
*Livid.*
How *dare* he?
Before I realise I’m going to do it, I find myself pulling my wrist from his grasp and drawing myself up to my full height. I’m actually taller than him, I’m surprised to realise, and for once I’m actually glad of that fact, actively trying to think ‘looming’ thoughts as I look down my nose at him.
“Please don’t do that,” I say flatly, my tone turning it into an order, despite the ‘please.’ “As I said, I really do need to get back to work now. It’s very busy in here, as you can see. I hope the food and drink is to your satisfaction.”
He just stares at me, shocked and silent. Apparently he wasn’t expecting *that*. (For that matter, neither was I. Oh my god. What am I doing? How can I be so rude to a customer? Maybe I should… No. I am *not* apologising to him. *I’m* not the one in the wrong here.) I start to turn away again, hoping that’s be the end of it. Hoping that he’s got the message. Hoping that he’ll now leave me alone like I asked.
Hoping for that, but not really expecting it.
“There’s no need to be such a bitch about it!”
Well, there’s a shock.
(“Stupid bitch!” “Frigid bitch!” “Ugly bitch” “…bitch…” “…bitch…” “…bitch…” It never occurred to me until now just how unimaginative *his* insults really were. I mean, repeating the same word over and over again is just *lazy*.)
“There’s no call for that kind of language,” I say stiffly, wondering what I’m doing continuing to interact with him. I should just ignore him. It’s just a word. I’ve been called worse; much worse. I should… I should…
(I want to say I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’ll do better, I’ll be good. I want to run away and hide. I want to *hit* him.)
He’s flat-out glaring at me now, his face a mask of fury. I start to wonder if he’s actually going to stop at words, but that’s probably just an overreaction. Surely he’s not going to do anything… physical. Not here, not in front of everyone. Not with my friends around. (But what about later, when I’m on my own? He knows where I work…)
“Oh, *I’m* sorry,” he says, and I feel a rush of relief that he’s going for sarcasm rather than a slap. “I take it back. You’re not a bitch. You’re a *cunt*!”
A haze descends over my vision, my pulse thundering in my ears so that I can barely even hear myself when I say:
“Out.”
It doesn’t even sound like me. It sounds like someone fierce and strong-willed; someone used to standing up for herself. Someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed. (I like the way it sounds.)
“What?” he says, laughing like what I’m hearing and what he’s hearing are two completely different things.
(Part of me wants to take it back, say it was nothing. Part of me wants to break a mug over his stupid smirking face.)
“I said: get out.” Why is he even still standing there? I mean: really? “Exit the premises. Now. You’re not welcome here.”
“Nice try,” he sneers. “But you can’t kick me out for trying to talk to you. I’m a paying customer!”
“You *were* a paying customer,” I correct him. “Now, you’re being a nuisance. I am well within my rights to ask you to leave, so that’s what I’m doing.”
He folds his arms, looking mutinous.
“That time of the month, is it?” he says. “Or do you just need to get laid?”
I can’t breathe for a moment, choking on the sheer mass of furious words trying to force their way through my lips. In lieu of speaking, I come out from behind the counter and stride right up to him, only stopping when we’re practically toe to toe. He takes a step backwards - involuntarily, I think - and then glowers up at me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he can say a word.
“It’s time for you to leave now,” I tell him. “Just get your things and go, or I will be forced to escalate this.”
“What does that even mean?” His tone is jeering, mocking, but he seems rattled. Rattled or not, though, he doesn’t show any sign of backing down. And… he actually has a point. What can I do? I’m hardly going to pick him up and drag him out bodily, even if I could, which I doubt. I could tell Mr Baelish, I suppose, but I have the horrible feeling he’d tell me to apologise and make the man a free drink. Which… no. I am *not* apologising. Not this time.
Mike’s sneer broadens when I don’t answer right away, taking on an edge of smug triumph that goes through me like nails on a blackboard. Despair starts to coalesce in my chest; a small, hard lump that seems to sit heavily on my heart. Am I really going to have to back down after finally standing up for myself?
“It means I get to toss you out on your arse,” says Asha. I realise all over again that I’m not alone, and the despair and the panic just seems to melt away. Asha steps up beside me, and she may be shorter, but she’s so much more solid. Anything she lacks in height she more than makes up for in pure intimidation.
“It means we call the police and tell them you’re refusing to leave,” says Shae, and I’ve never heard her voice sound so cold.
“It means you’re barred,” Ygritte says. “Now smile for the camera.” She snaps a picture of Mike on her phone before he can react. “This is going on the wall of shame.”
My courage returning, I stare down at Mike, who’s now looking decidedly less certain of himself.
“As I said: it’s time for you to leave. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
“You can’t do this!” he protests, even as he takes a step backwards. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” With a start, I realise that he actually seems to believe that. Like it’s normal to demand that a complete stranger smile for you, regardless of how she feels about it. Like it’s normal to physically grab someone when she tries to politely extricate herself from a conversation she never wanted in the first place. Like it’s *normal* to resort to insults and name-calling just because she doesn’t capitulate to your whims.
Like *I’m* the one in the wrong here.
Could I be overreacting? Could I have provoked him somehow? Could-
“Oh, *do* make it harder. Please.” Daenerys’ voice pulls me out of my spiral, giving me something to focus on. She sounds fiercely, darkly amused. “I’m looking forward to seeing if Asha can beat her previous distance record for the dickweed discus.”
That phrase… doesn’t sound at all like something I’d expect from Daenerys. But I’m almost more surprised when Asha laughs heartily.
“Surprised you remember that.”
“It was… *memorable*,” Daenerys murmurs.
Asha eyes Mike speculatively. “I think he’s skinnier than the last one.”
“I think you’re right.” Daenerys grins, her expression startlingly like Asha’s. “That means he should go further.”
Mike looks from one of them to the other, paling visibly.
“You can’t… You won’t… If you lay a hand on me, I’ll go to the police! I’ll… I’ll sue!”
Asha raises an eyebrow. “Looks like I’d better make it count then.” She makes a move towards Mike, who backs away, shaking his head.
“You bitches are crazy! And, anyway, the coffee here sucks.” Asha twitches again, and he practically bolts, snatching up his things and making for the door.
“And don’t come back,” Asha calls after him.
Apparently unwilling to let her have the last word, he pauses in the doorway to shout: “Dykes!” before fleeing into the night.
What a classy guy.
There’s a sudden outburst of clapping and cheering from the other customers, startling me. I blush, naturally.
Asha grins and takes a bow. “Nothing to see here, citizens,” she says cheerfully. “Just a common or garden arse-wipe getting what he deserves. Feel free to go about your business.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Shae murmurs. She shakes her head. “And now we really should get back to work. There are orders waiting.”
She suits the action to the words, and I follow her, only realising how wobbly I am when I start to move. I think I might be shaking a little.
“Thanks, all of you,” I say with feeling, turning to include all of them as I start to measure out beans and syrups. “I appreciate you backing me up. I’m sorry for-“
“You stop right there,” Ygritte says sternly. “I heard what he said to you. The guy had it coming.”
“I think the whole shop heard what he said,” Missandei murmurs. I wonder where she came from. “No once could expect you to simply ignore it.”
“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” Shae assures me. “You were perfectly polite to him. He was the one who was out of line.”
“You were a absolutely in the right,” Daenerys says, looking at me with what seems to be a mixture of fondness and pride. “And you were far politer about it than I would’ve been.”
“Not difficult, Dragon,” Asha says, but there’s no bite to the words, and she’s still grinning. “Talk about damning with faint praise.”
“You’re not exactly Miss Manners yourself,” Daenerys retorts, but she sounds amused.
I think this may the most civil they’ve ever been with each other, at least since I’ve known them. I wonder if this means that the bad feelings between them are finally starting to fade. (I wonder at the brief pang that causes in me; something a little tiny bit like… envy? Which is ridiculous. People can and do have more than one close friend. And just because they had a relationship once, that doesn’t mean they’re going to do so again. Not that it would matter even if they did. Even if they did become involved with each other again, I’m sure they’d still be friends with me.)
“Fuck manners,” Asha proclaims. “But, to get back to the subject at hand…” She turns her attention to me. “If you hadn’t given that prick his marching orders, I would’ve done. Customers don’t get to behave like that and still be customers. I would’ve stepped in sooner, but you looked like you had things well in hand.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little overwhelmed by it all. “I think I was doing okay at first, but then he just wouldn’t leave.”
“That’s what back-up’s for,” she says. “But if you do want to learn how to intimidate a motherfucker, I’ll teach you. Or Dany can.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, wondering if I actually *want* to learn how to intimidate a… How to intimidate someone. I think maybe I’d like to learn to be more assertive, at least. I guess I can see how it goes from there.
“Well, as long as you’re okay, I suppose I’d better let you get back to it,” Daenerys says softly, sighing.
“Maybe we can chat when the rush dies down a bit?” I say hopefully, and she rewards me with one of her most brilliant smiles.
“I’d like that.”
And as I once more focus my attention on the act of making coffee, I realise: I’m not feeling wobbly any more. More than that, I think I’m feeling… happy?
I stood up for myself. I stood up for myself and I didn’t back down, not even when my resolve started to waver. I stood up for myself, and my friends backed me up.
I think this must be what triumph feels like.