Hot Coffee Part 8

[tamoline]

Title: Hot Coffee part 8
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys

Working in a coffee shop can be more than little insane, especially when you need to the money to make ends meet, you have problems standing up for yourself and your boss has an ongoing feud with one of the regular customers.

Really, the last thing you need is to actually start *liking* the customer in question.

(in response to a prompt here:
Game of Thrones, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, coffeeshop AU

The knock comes promptly at noon. It's not the sound of someone gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door. Rather, it's a thunderous report that seems like it should rattle the door in its frame, making me leap off the sofa like a startled rabbit. Even if I wasn't expecting Asha, I would have guessed that it was her.

Or maybe a passing giant.

I straighten my top (a nervous gesture; I should probably try to stop doing it in future) and answer the door.

Asha doesn't bother with anything as superfluous as a greeting. She just looks me up and down and gives a grudging nod of approval.

"You'll do," she says gruffly, then flashes a brief, unexpected grin. "I'm almost surprised you even own a tracksuit."

"Of course I do," I say, stung into unusual asperity by her dismissive words.

She just grunts.

"Ready to go?" she asks laconically.

"I just need to put my shoes on and grab my stuff. Do you want to come in a minute?"

"Thanks."

I'm conscious of her looming presence as I sit down to tie my trainers. She's looking around the room, blatantly scrutinising everything in sight.

Judging it, probably.

"I wouldn't have thought that was your kind of decor," she observes, nodding towards the 3-D anatomy posters on the wall.

"One of my housemates is a medical student," I explain. "She says it helps her to have them there." Looming over anyone who sits on the sofa. "She sometimes has a full model skeleton on display, but she tends to move that into her room when she's not here."

I stand up and slip on my jacket and backpack.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"You've got a bottle of water?"

"A full litre," I confirm.

"Then let's go."

She strides forth without so much as a backwards glance. As I close the door behind us and hurry to catch up, I wonder again: what have I let myself in for?

The practice ground turns out to be a short bus ride away. The first couple of minutes pass in awkward silence, and I'm just starting to wonder if I should try to make conversation (or if it would be terribly rude of me just to pull out my book and start reading) when Asha's phone rings.

Saved by the bell.

She glances at the display and rolls her eyes.

"What do you want, Theon?" she barks by way of greeting.

I quickly look away, trying to at least give her the illusion of privacy. Even if the illusion is all it is. I mean, I'm sitting right next to her, and she isn't really making any effort to keep her voice down.

(Anyway, it's not eavesdropping if I can't help overhearing.)

Theon... Why does that name seem familiar?

Whoever he is, the 'conversation' between them is clearly an argument, and -- from the occasional mention of terms like 'catch limits' and 'trawlers' -- it's apparently regarding her family's fishing business. Sounds like Asha and this Theon person are having some kind of disagreement about the way they do things. Or will do things?

It seems to be quite a serious disagreement, judging by the way Asha turning the air blue with a stream of profanity that makes me blush to hear it.

She's very inventive.

"Well, fuck you too!" she spits out, almost disappointingly (such an ordinary epithet after all the others) and then hangs up, stabbing the disconnect icon as though she's trying to put her finger through the screen. She glowers at the phone for a moment before shoving it back in her pocket.

The silence stretches even more awkwardly than before the phone call. I glance over at her, startled to find myself meeting her gaze.

"My brother," she mutters, as if in explanation.

Not that Asha Greyjoy ever explains herself. Not ever.

But at least now I know why the same sounded familiar. Mystery solved.

I should probably just let the silence linger, uncomfortable though it is. Instead, though, I find myself actually attempting to offer sympathy.

"Dealing with family can be tough, sometimes," I murmur.

"Ha! You're not wrong there, Stark. Can't live with 'em, can't just slaughter the whole damn lot of 'em."

Not *quite* how I would have put it, but I can certainly understand the sentiment.

"It seems to be a little easier since I moved away," I offer.

Even if I haven't actually moved all that far.

But if only I can persuade my mother to loosen her death grip on the reins a little, maybe it'll get easier still. Maybe I'll actually start looking forward to her phone calls, rather than mostly seeing them as just another chore.

"Yeah, well, Theon's just as much of a prick as he ever was. All the distance in the world won't help that."

"Is he older or younger?"

Part of me can't quite believe that I'm apparently having a relatively normal, relatively civil conversation with Asha. I wouldn't say she's a different person outside the coffee shop, exactly, but I couldn't imagine having this discussion there. I certainly don't think I'd be asking all these questions about something other than her boat-building project.

"Younger by a couple of years. Finished A-levels and getting in some work experience before going off to university next year." She shakes her head, pulling a disgusted face. "Less than a year in, and he already thinks he knows the family trade better than I do. Arrogant git."

"I see."

"He wants us to *diversify* and *modernise*," she spits out, scowling like the words leave a nasty taste in her mouth.

"And that's... bad?" I ask cautiously.

I still can't quite believe she's actually answering my questions, rather than just telling me to f... to go away. I half-wonder if I should stop asking, stop pushing, but I know there's no way my curiosity is going to let me do any such thing.

"Some modernisation is inevitable," she admits grudgingly. "Especially technologically. We've got to be able to compete in today's market, after all. But we have traditions. We have *values*. We can't just toss all that by the wayside just because things get a little tough! We're *Greyjoys*. That name should stand for something."

"Right," I say, not really knowing how I'm supposed to respond to that.

Or even if I'm supposed to respond. But she's looking at me now, studying me with a direct, scrutinising stare that makes me want to duck my head and hide behind my hair.

I don't like being looked at.

(Well, maybe unless it's Daenerys doing the looking.)

"You understand, don't you?" she says, suddenly. "I mean, you're a Stark of Winterfell. You have a history. You have *roots*. Not like these Johnny-come-latelies who crow about back their family tree as far back four whole generations. Or businesses who splash 'Established in 1952' all over their signs like it actually means something. Pah!"

"I guess."

But I think I do understand what she means. And I sort of agree with some of it, but not all. I mean, new doesn't mean bad. And maybe some things *should* be changed once in a while.

Not that I'm going to say that to her, of course.

I remember... I remember Dad showing me the Weirwood grove for the first time, the memory flooding in so suddenly and so vividly that I can almost feel the bitter Autumn wind nipping at my cheeks, see the bright pink of my new little wellingtons disappearing beneath the thick dark mud, smell the rich aroma of old wood and wet leaves.

The Weirwood grove was -- still is, I guess -- a tangled thicket of trees all grown together, so gnarled and twisted they almost looked like they were staring at me with wizened little faces. I didn't really like it much, honestly. (Maybe I was even a little frightened of them. Maybe.)

(Okay, maybe a lot.)

But he took hold of my hand and he told me... He told me that those trees were older than the house itself. That they'd stood there for long before there was ever a Stark in Winterfell, or even a Winterfell at all, and that they would still be standing long after all of us were gone. (That didn't really lessen their scariness, to be honest.) He said that they symbolised our responsibilities to our family, and to the land. In that order.

That they were a reminder of our heritage.

I miss him so much.

"You daydreaming again, Stark?" Asha's voice cracks the cocoon of memory wide open, and I blink stupidly at her for a moment before I find my voice.

"No, just... Just thinking about my father. What you said about tradition and history reminded me of some of the things he used to say." I take a deep breath, mentally shooing the ghosts away. "I think he would have agreed with you."

At least in part.

"Oh. Well, good." She nods, looking pleased.

Silence wraps itself around us once more, but for some reason it doesn't quite feel so awkward now.

Or maybe that's just my imagination.

In any case, a few minutes later Asha elbows me in the side (ow!) and presses the bell.

"Look sharp, Stark," she says cheerfully. "Time for you to start learning how it's really done."

Oh.

Great.

Sighing inwardly, I drag myself to my feet.

Time to get this over with.

"Come on, Stark, put some welly into it!" Asha roars from somewhere behind me. "That's not a bouquet you've got in your hand."

"I'm trying!" I pant. My hands are throbbing and my arms feel like limp noodles, but I grit my teeth and swing for the target again, giving it everything I've got left.

It's more than I thought.

Maybe a little too much, actually.

The padded practice sword thunks solidly against the target with a bone-jarring impact, twisting in my grip. I try to tighten my hands on the hilt, trying desperately to hang onto it, but I can't. I just *can't*. It drops to the ground, bouncing once and then laying still. The blade pointing towards me like an accusing finger.

I sigh, letting my arms hang limp for one blessed moment before bending to scoop the thing up.

I'm *glad* you fell in the mud, I tell it silently, irrationally and fervently hating the inanimate object for its role in my abject and on-going humiliation. I *hate* you. I hate *this*!

"What the hell was that?" Asha demands, glowering. Under any other circumstances, that expression might make me grovel and cower and mumble apologies like some kind of simpleton. Now, though, I'm just too exhausted and (pissed off) peeved to be intimidated.

"My hands are tired," I say, hating the plaintive whine in my voice. "I couldn't hold onto it any longer."

She sighs heavily, stepping forward without so much as a by-your-leave and physically adjusting my grip. (It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.)

"Like *this*, Sansa." Wow, she actually used my first name for once. She must be annoyed. "Like I showed you. Now widen your stance and bed your knees a little." I do what she says. She kicks my foot. "No, wider. The way you're standing right now, a stiff breeze could knock you over."

I notice a few of the others standing around and watching, gathering in pairs and small groups to point and mock at the gangling beanpole who's all thumbs and two left feet.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

What was I even thinking? Why didn't I just pluck up the courage to tell Asha I wasn't interested when she first dragooned me into this?

Like it was that easy.

Like it's ever that easy.

I'm cold, I'm tired, I hurt and I'm embarrassed. And my misery only deepens as Asha takes me through drill after drill, exercise after exercise until I just want to lay down and *die*.

Maybe of embarrassment.

"Leave the poor girl alone, Asha," one of the bystanders calls out, laughing. I glance over at him, torn between mortification at the fact that my discomfort is so obvious, and thankfulness for his intercession on my behalf.

The speaker turns out to be a short-ish man with black hair and a neatly-sculpted beard. I remember him from Asha's rather perfunctory introduction earlier, but I didn't quite catch his name.

R-something, I think.

"You stay out of this, Renfield," she snaps back. (Renfield? Really? Huh. Still, it's nice to know who it is I'm making a fool of myself in front of.) "It's none of your business."

"That's *Renly*," he says, pointedly. "One of these days you'll get it right." (I'm not sure Renly's much better than Renfield, honestly, but I keep that to myself.) He saunters over, giving me a smile and Asha a very disapproving look. "Let her catch her breath at least," he says, and that sounds like the most wonderful idea in the world right now.

I look at Asha with what I'm sure must be huge, pleading eyes. She sighs loudly.

"Fine. Five minutes. Stretch it out. Drink some water. And give me that sword before you drop it again."

I mutely hold it out and she practically snatches it out of my hands.

Ow.

"You don't have to be so rough."

Bloody hell, did I just say that out loud?

Asha's head whips around towards me, and there's a look of such shock on her face that it would be comical if I wasn't so horrified.

I can feel the apology right there on the tip of my tongue, quickly followed by the urge to hunch in on myself, to make myself as small a target as possible. My stomach flutters and twists like I'm standing on the deck of a boat in rough seas.

But something won't let me give in to my usual cowardice. So I stand there, my spine straight(-ish), looking Asha (more or less) directly in the eyes.

And I say...

Nothing, apparently.

Maybe the apology I *still* want to give voice to has strangled all my other words, leaving me standing here dumb and dumbfounded with everyone *looking* at me, waiting for me to speak up.

I bet Alanna Stone never has this problem.

I try to put myself into her skin, to fill myself with her easy confidence, but she slips through my fingers like smoke, eluding my desperate grasp.

And it's just me standing here. In front of Asha. Who currently has a face like a thundercloud.

Eep.

"Um, I mean my fingers are a little stiff and sore -- because I've never really held a sword before, you see, and I'm still not even really sure if I was holding it right -- and um, anyway, I couldn't quite open my hands fast enough and you kind of bent my finger back a little bit when you took the sword and it sort of hurt and, um, maybe just make sure I've actually let go of it properly before pulling it away next time?"

Great. Now everyone can add 'gangling beanpole who's all thumbs and two left feet *and* babbles idiotically.'

Way to make a great first impression, Sansa.

I brace myself in anticipation of a rant to end all rants, but what happens next is something I could never have predicted.

"I'm... sorry if I hurt you. I'll try to be more careful next time."

Asha looks as shocked to be saying the words -- grudging and halting though they are -- as I am to be hearing them. It takes a moment before I can shake off my paralysis enough to reply to her.

"It's okay," I say, quickly. "I was probably just being clumsy, anyway." And, feeling rather like I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I take a deep breath and make myself continue. "You know, I'm not really sure this is for me. I mean, I'm not very strong and I clearly don't have any kind of natural aptitude with a sword."

Which I could have told her already, if she'd bothered to ask.

She starts to say something, but Renly interrupts, talking right over her.

"Maybe you just need a better teacher," he says, giving me a smile that somehow manages to be highly amused, but not unkind. "Asha might be one of our best fighters, but as a teacher? Honestly?" He leans in a little, conspiratorially, but doesn't bother to lower his voice in the slightest. "She sucks donkey balls."

"Oi! I'm standing right *here*, you foppish French fuckwit!"

French? He doesn't *sound* French. He sounds as English as I am.

"I *know*," Renly says, shrugging as he turns the full force of his smile on her. "I'm hardly going to say something like that behind your back now, am I? Where would be the fun in that?"

Somehow, against all the odds, I manage to neither laugh nor to gasp in horror.

I can't believe he said that.

I really can't believe he said that.

Especially not when Asha's standing there with a sword in her hand. A practice sword, granted, but even so.

It's either the bravest thing I've ever seen, or the stupidest thing I've ever seen.

I'm still trying to decide which -- maybe both? -- when Renly abruptly turns around and yells at the top of his lungs, making me almost jump out of my skin.

"Loras!" he shouts. "Come over here a minute. I need you."

A moment later, a figure emerges from the group of people across the way. The ones who *aren't* standing around gawping at the show, but are actually focusing on their own training.

I give him a quick glance as he jogs over, and then a second one. And a third for good measure. Wow. He *really* looks the part. Like, tall and regal, with curly brown hair and pale blue eyes. (Not as blue as Daenerys' eyes, of course, but then whose are?) It's like a knight from one of my books has stepped out of the pages and is jogging across a field in Nottinghamshire.

Gracefully.

Who even jogs gracefully?

(Apart from Daenerys.)

He smiles at us as he approaches, and I find myself smiling back.

And blushing, naturally.

"What do you need?" he asks affably, and even his *voice* is like something I'd expect from a fairy tale hero; a mellow, resonant tenor.

In my head, I'm already casting him as a gallant knight, perhaps rescuing a fair damsel, or duelling for a lady's favour.

(And I try not to think that maybe that lady could be tall and have red hair.)

"Sansa Stark, meet Loras Tyrell. Loras, this is Sansa. Asha brought her along today for the first time. Dragged her kicking and screaming, unless I miss my guess." He gives me a knowing wink. I blush and, conscious of Asha's baleful glare, very carefully say nothing at all.

"It's nice to meet you, Sansa," Loras says to me.

"And you too," I practically whisper.

He really has the most wonderful smile.

(Even though it doesn't make me feel quite as warm inside as...)

"Anyway," Renly says, drawing Loras' attention away from me. "Asha's been trying to teach her how to swing a sword, which is going about as well as you might imagine, so I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to help out."

"Of course," he says, like it's not even a problem, like there aren't a million and one other, better things he could be doing with his time than showing one klutzy novice how to do something she never even wanted to do in the first place. "Shall we start now, Sansa?"

I'm... torn.

What I want to do more than anything is say thank you, but no thank you. Swordplay isn't for me, and I'll just be going now.

But on the other hand, it would be rude to say no after Loras so courteously went along with Renly just volunteering his services out of the blue.

And... And I kind of maybe wouldn't mind spending some time with him.

On the gripping hand, there's Asha. She did bring me here, and she was *trying* to teach me. She didn't even shout and swear at me all that much, really. Whatever Renly says about her teaching ability, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear

And I'm definitely more sow's ear than silken cloth.

Hesitantly, I turn to Asha.

"What do you think? Is that okay with you?"

She stares at me for a long, excruciating moment, and then waves a hand -- *not* the one holding the sword -- in clear dismissal.

"Go. See if Loras has better luck getting you to remember which end of the sword to hold than I did. It's about time I did some practice of my own, anyway."

She hands the practice sword to Loras.

Yes!

I mean, this is perfectly acceptable to me.

"Excellent!" Renly claps his hands together and nudges Asha. "Come on, Viking, let's spar." He smirks at her, making a beckoning gesture. "You know you want to try and hit me."

"More than you know, Frenchy," Asha growls. "And I won't just be trying." But there's a reluctant smile hovering at the corners of her mouth as she strides determinedly after him.

I suppose that was just friendly banter? Rather than actual hostility? It's hard to tell with Asha, sometimes.

I might have guessed she would have friends who are just as... forthright and physically expressive as she is.

"*Someone's* going to be all over bruises tonight," Loras sighs, frowning after the pair of them.

I blink. Maybe I was wrong.

"I thought it was just friendly sparring? I thought everyone was supposed to pull their blows?"

"It is, and they are. But Asha tends to play rough and Renly won't lose face by telling her to step it back a notch. If anything, he'll probably taunt her into being *more* aggressive." He shakes his head. "That mouth of his is going to get him in serious trouble one of these days," he says, then smirks a little.

"I... see."

It's so noble, the way he's worrying about his friend.

Now I'm even more glad that Asha just had me swing at a training dummy, rather than actually facing off against her. I most definitely do not like to play rough.

"Alright, enough about them." Loras turns to me with a kind smile. "Shall we get started?"

Right. Focus, Sansa. Try not to mess everything up this time.

I smile back at Loras, hoping against hope that the heat in my cheeks is from the exertion of training, rather than a blush of embarrassment.

Or any other kind of blush.

"Um, okay. Thanks for doing this."

"It's no trouble," he says, and he actually sounds like he means that, rather than just saying it to be polite. (He's probably just being polite.) "I'm one of the official weapons trainers for the Living History group anyway. So, I should be the one apologising to you for being remiss in my duties."

"Oh no, there's no need for that," I say quickly. "We got here early, and Asha wanted to get started, so we just kind of got on with it." I make myself stop, take a breath, and continue more slowly. "Anyway, you looked kind of busy."

"Well, I'm here now." And I'm thankful for that. "Alright, then. First of all, I have a couple of questions."

He looks at me like he's waiting for some kind of response. I look back at him, taking the opportunity to enjoy the view.

Oh my god. I can't believe I just thought that. Am I staring? I hope I'm not staring. He must think I'm such a fool.

"Okay," I answer, trying not to shift uncomfortably.

"Have you done anything like this before? Fencing, martial arts, or any other kind of combat training?"

I shake my head.

"No, nothing." I think about mentioning yesterday's LARP session, but I don't think hurling imaginary fireballs is going to be at all relevant here. Anyway, what if his feeling about LARP are the same as Asha's? "Sorry."

"No need to apologise," he says gently. "Not everyone has. It just helps me to know what kind of experience you have, so I can better tailor my instruction to your level of ability."

"In that case, my level of ability is non-existent."

"What about other physical activities? Yoga, perhaps, or gymnastics, or dancing? Even aerobics. Anything involving movement and balance, really."

"I, um, I used to dance," I say, shyly. "Country dancing, ballroom dancing and ballet. Also some tap dancing, but I didn't do that for very long."

I bet he's a wonderful dancer. He's so poised and elegant.

"Good." He nods, looking pleased. "That will help."

"It will?"

"Of course. Believe it or not, how to stand and how to move are two of the most fundamental lessons of swordplay, and dancing teaches you both of those things. There are things that don't translate, of course, but we can worry about that later. For now, let's just start with the basics. Alright?"

"Um, alright."

"Good." His voice becomes brisk and business-like. "I'd like you to stand facing me with your feet shoulder's width apart..."

Much to my very great surprise, I don't totally hate the lesson. I haven't magically come to *enjoy* swinging a sword around or anything, but there's a certain sense of achievement in knowing that, if I wanted to, I wouldn't necessarily totally suck at it.

(I probably would, of course, but at least at the moment I feel like I have a chance of not failing completely.)

It feels a little disloyal to say it, even just in the privacy of my own head, but Loras really is a *much* better teacher than Asha. He's patient, and he explains things, and he doesn't look at me like he's wondering how someone so incompetent and idiotic even manages to walk without falling over her own feet. There are a couple of occasions when he has to physically adjust my stance, or my grip on the sword and, unlike Asha, he actually asks first. Also unlike Asha, his touch is light and gentle.

Naturally, I blush like a tomato on every single such occasion.

And I think I might... like it?

It's maybe a little bit like... like dancing.

The time passes more quickly than I would have expected, and I'm horrified to realise that I've completely monopolised Loras' attention for the rest of the training session. I try to apologise, but he waves my babbling away with another one of his easy smiles.

"I enjoy teaching," he says. "And, between you and me, it makes a refreshing change to have a student who actually listens to what I say." I duck my head, blushing. He's probably just saying that, but it's nice to hear nonetheless. "If you think you're going continue with the training, there are some exercises I'd suggest that will probably make things a little easier for you."

"Well..."

If he'd asked that earlier, my answer would have been a resounding no. (Well, it would have been in my head. Out loud, I would have undoubtedly stammered assent.) But now, I find myself oddly indecisive.

"I think I'll try one more session and decide then," I find myself saying.

"That's sensible," he says, nodding. "Of course, if you do decide that the war part of re-enactment isn't for you, there's always the crafting and historical realism side of things. And we can always use a few non-combatants to add some verisimilitude to our formal gatherings."

I never even thought about that.

I mean, I did before, when I was trying to convince myself that letting Asha drag me out here wasn't really all that horrible an idea. But today, the thought never even crossed my mind.

"That sounds great," I say enthusiastically. "I still don't think that swordfighting -- or any kind of fighting -- is really my thing, but I really love the idea of making things using authentic methods, and recreating specific periods and events from history." It belatedly occurs to me that I've just disparaged a part of the hobby that Loras obviously enjoys. I wince inwardly. And blush outwardly. "Um, no offence. About the swordfighting thing."

"None taken," he says genially. He shrugs. "It isn't for everyone. Anyway, wouldn't life be boring if we all liked the same things?"

"I guess so."

Wise as well as handsome. I stand by my first statement: *wow*.

I think... I think if I spend much more time around Loras, I might start to develop a little crush on him.

Maybe I already have.

Not that he'd ever in a million years feel the same way about me, of course. But that's okay. I'm happy just to enjoy this feeling.

Besides, it's perfectly normal to have a crush on someone like Loras.

(Unlike on...)

"How'd it go, then?" Asha's voice breaks in. "Did you manage to make a fighter out of her?"

Loras doesn't *actually* roll his eyes, but in the brief moment before he turns towards Asha, his face bears the most long-suffering expression I've ever seen. And then it's gone as if it never even existed, replaced by the friendly smile that seems to be his default.

"We covered the basics, and Sansa definitely shows potential." He smiles at me. "She's going to come back next week and see if she likes it any better."

"Oh." Asha actually looks startled, but she recovers quickly. "Well, good. We'll soon have you swinging a sword like you were born with one, Stark!"

Oh. Great.

I smile and make a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, Renly chooses that moment to limp up to our little group, providing a convenient distraction.

"Let me guess," Loras says dryly, looking him up and down. "Asha powered right through your guard again and smacked you hard in the side."

"Good guess," Renly says, dropping his hand from his side.

"It's not my fault if his guard was pathetic," Asha huffs.

"No, but it is your fault if you don't pull your blow enough," Loras says, and he actually looks serious. "If you're not careful, you're going to end up causing someone a serious injury. And what kind of example are you setting for the new people?"

"It wasn't *that* hard," she objects. "And he did tell me to, what was it? To 'give it some *oomph*'."

Loras shoots a hard look at Renly, who shrugs sheepishly and then winces.

"What can I say? She's just so much fun to wind up. It's not *my* fault she has an ogre or something in her family tree." He looks over at Asha. "You know, you are *freakishly* strong for a girl."

She salutes him, grinning.

"Thanks," she says.

"That wasn't a... Oh, never mind. I've had enough. I need a drink." He draws in a deep breath, winces again, and shouts loudly enough that I almost expect to see a microphone. "To the pub!"

That draws a ragged cheer from the others, who are mostly standing around in small groups, chatting.

Renly turns back to us, smiling.

"Care to join us, Sansa?"

"Oh, um, I probably shouldn't. I have an essay I need to work on."

"Come on, Stark," says Asha. "You can come along for one, can't you?"

I know I should demur, but...

"Alright. I'll come out for one, then."

And, really, I'm not quite as reluctant as I sound. Or as I probably should be, really.

Oh well.

What Mum doesn't know won't earn me another lecture.

To the pub!