Summary: Writer's block is the worst, but as Travis takes a break and wanders the neighborhood, he finds a lovely little coffeeshop that might just give him the inspiration he needs. Oneshot. Pre-slashy.

Warnings: Writer AU. Coffee shop AU.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

Enjoy!

OOOO

Ink Stains And Coffee Beans

"Of course I get writer's block. It's terrible."

—Christine McVie

XXXX

The cursor blinks at him accusingly, mockingly. Travis hasn't written a single word all day.

"What do you mean, you haven't written anything?" his editor squawks in his ear. "Travis, your deadline—"

"Trust me, Paekman, I know exactly when my deadline is." It's a big red circle on his calendar. That mocks him too. He sighs, pushes away from his desk. "I'm telling you, it's gone. Any shred of inspiration I had. Poof."

"Don't you poof me," Paekman scolds. "If it's gone, then go find it! You're not my only author, you know. There's a schedule to these things."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get right on that," he mutters, rolling his eyes, and with Paekman muttering deprecations and pleas equally Travis hangs up.

He rises, paces the room, mind straining for the hundredth time. Nothing comes. He's got half a novel written and nothing more. He wants to blame the apartment—it's new, and unfamiliar, and strange—but he wasn't writing at his old place either. Moving was supposed to shake the cogs loose.

"Dammit," he scrubs his hands over his face, giving up. A break could do him good. He'll walk around, see what's in the neighborhood. Maybe he'll even find some inspiration.

XXXX

He doesn't find inspiration. He does find three hole-in-the-wall restaurants he's determined to try soon and a tiny produce shop run by two elderly black women he's totally going to start going to because he believes in supporting local business. But inspiration is as elusive as a unicorn.

Maybe there's nothing left. Maybe he had a few good novels in him and now he's all dried up. Maybe…

No. He's just hit a slump. The words will come. He just has to work at it.

Groaning, he turns back towards his place and comes face to face with himself.

Well, sort of. There's an entire window display of a very familiar set of books, and a poster, all computer circuits and crisp blue lines, and it's almost cooler than anything official he's seen.

He steps back, looks up, curious. Inkwell, it's called, the logo a plumed quill arching elegantly out of a coffee cup.

Honestly, he'd check it out just for the logo, even if it didn't have his name in the window.

The bell rings brightly as he comes in, the strong scent of coffee mixing pleasantly with the crisp, papery smell of new books. The front section of the store is a coffee shop, a counter and a few tiny tables and chairs. The rest of the store is full of shelves, a twisted maze of books and cushy chairs.

It's warm and comfortable and even thought the last thing he wants to think about is books he finds himself relaxing. He runs his fingers along the shelves, the spines of the books bumpy under his fingertips.

He closes his eyes, breathing in the soothing coffee-paper smell, listening to the low murmur of the customers, and he smiles.

He likes it already.

XXXX

For a tiny little shop, it's surprisingly busy. Travis ends up going to Inkwell all the time, whenever he's stuck on his writing—which, let's face it, is often. (And he's totally not avoiding calls from Paekman, promise.)

Every time he goes to the store, there's always a small crowd, eating and talking and reading.

Which is a little surprising, given the owner's kind of an asshole.

XXXX

He doesn't realize Wes is the owner for, god, almost two weeks, not until Clyde behind the counter makes some passing comments. Up until then, Wes is just the guy in the back, always in the kitchen or restocking shelves. He doesn't seem to like customers very much—he answers questions as shortly and briskly as possible, and he only helps out at the register when he absolutely has to.

But that's not why Travis dislikes him.

No, mostly it's because Wes insulted his book.

XXXX

Their first meeting goes like this:

It's just cresting six in the morning. Travis has been up since four, because a Gordian knot of a plot point woke him up and then his blinking cursor taunted him so he finally took a walk. When he sees the 'Open' sign in Inkwell's door, he takes it as a sign from above.

For once, it's empty, the early morning crowd not up this early. Travis pauses in the doorway, lets that familiar coffee-book smell wash over him, in a way that's quickly becoming associated with comfortable.

Wes is behind the counter. At this point Travis doesn't know he's the owner: he just assumes Wes took the morning shift to be in the store when it's as empty as possible.

Travis walks up with his best early-morning smile on. Wes is cute, he notes absently, leaning against the counter, in a sharp, angled sort of way. He turns up the charm a notch. "Morning."

To which Wes gives him a scowl and says, "Get off the glass."

Um, okay.

Travis straightens. "Right. Sure, sorry." He flashes his best apologetic, sheepish grin at the other man, with as much force as he can muster this early in the morning.

Wes is entirely unaffected. "What do you want?" He's as brusque and sharp as Travis has observed, like he has a thousand better things to do than deal with people. Maybe he's why the store is so empty right now.

"I'll uh, I'll have a medium house blend with cream, please."

"4.25." Wes punches it into the register, takes his money, and starts brewing without another word. Travis stands at the counter, feeling more than a little awkward. All the other workers will at least make small talk while they're brewing his coffee. But not this guy.

Wes just stands at the coffee maker, back an imposing wall that doesn't invite conversation. Travis studies the small stand of bestsellers by the resister and pretends like this is totally cool, this is a normal coffee experience.

"Here you go." Wes sets the mug down (an actual mug, another cool thing about this place) down with a sharp 'thunk', and puts his hands on his hips. "Anything else?"

"Uh, yeah, a cinnamon apple muffin, please." He hasn't had breakfast yet and those muffins are like muffin apply pie goodness.

Wes rings up the muffin, obligingly warms it as Travis's request, and sets the plate next to the mug.

"Thanks," he mutters, grabs his breakfast, and retreats to a table. For a few minutes, it's completely silent, aside from Travis's eating and the soft sounds as Wes prepares the store. At one point, Travis thinks he sees Wes glance at him from the corner of his eye, and a moment later the music starts playing from the overhead speakers. Otherwise it's silent between then.

It's not all bad. The quiet lets his thoughts percolate in his brain—he can work on untangling his plot threads without any distraction.

Not that he accomplishes anything, but at least he's trying to work on his book. Paekman should be pleased.

He loses himself in characters and settings, coming at the tangle again and then again from a different angle, but it doesn't do any good. He hits a wall and there's no sign of where to go next.

Travis sighs, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee, and looks around. He's been daydreaming long enough Wes has finished opening shop and is perched behind the counter, reading a very familiar book.

Finally, a conversation starter.

"You like Michael Ealy?" he asks, biting back his smugness. He still gets a thrill when he sees someone reading one of his books.

The blonde shrugs. "He's alright."

Well, isn't that an ego-blow. Travis doesn't let it deter him. "I liked Cold Circuits," he offers.

The derisive snort Wes makes is a surprise. "Are you kidding? Cold Circuits is the worst in the series."

"Hey, I don't think it's that bad." Sure, it was the first of the series, and his first foray into the sci-fi/mystery genre, and yes, it had its problems, but Travis doesn't think it's the worst of the bunch.

(That honor goes to Delete/Restore. He's still not sure what he was thinking with that one.)

Wes snorts again, lifting his head. "Come on, it was a wreck. Android cops in the future, not that original. Using the android's point of view, that's a little better. But the plot was trite, you could tell Ealy was still working out his characters, and I guessed the killer halfway through the story, which is not what you want from a mystery."

These are all valid criticisms of the book, and Travis has heard them a thousand times over. He's never quite received them in such a scathing tone, though. Even his harshest critics were gentler in their delivery.

Travis sips his coffee and tries not to feel too hurt. Don't take it personally, Paekman always says, but it's hard not to when he puts so much into those books. "It can't be that bad," he finally says, a little helplessly.

Wes looks down at his book and admits, "The series gets better as it goes, and I like Dorian."

Travis smiles against the rim of his mug.

XXXX

Dorian comes to him in a dream, Dorian and Rudy both. Travis doesn't remember the exact details, just an image that lingers long after he wakes: Dorian, sitting on a metal table, the side of his head wide open, exposing violet circuitry, and Rudy standing behind him, a pair of pliers in his hands.

He spends a day rolling that image around in his head, asking questions. Who are they? What happened to Dorian? Why androids? He spends another month sketching out the world, a world where technology advances again and again until it seems unstoppable.

Once he's got the world, the characters snap into place. With the characters, the story comes easy. He writes the first draft in six months. It's horrible; he scraps it and writes it from an entirely different point of view—Dorian's. It works much better that way.

As soon as it's done, he sends it to his agent, who informs him that it will be hard to switch genres and maybe he should change his name, because up until now 'Michael Brown' has only written rom-coms (or the literary equivalent of). Jumping to a sci-fi thriller will throw long-time fans and deter new readers. Thus, 'Michael Brown' becomes 'Michael Ealy', and Cold Circuits is on shelves in less than a year.

He never expects how well it does, well enough to stay on bestseller lists and get him a contract for five more books. There's something about John and Rudy, Valerie and Richard and Sandra, and especially Dorian, something that resonates with people and makes readers love them.

It's true most successful he's ever been. Beyond that, writing these characters, this world, is easy. There's not even a struggle. This team wants to be written, they want their stories told. Darknet gets written in nine months; Delete/Restore in five (still one of his worst books, but that was because of a plot that was too flimsy in hindsight. He has no idea how his editor let it slide.) Origin Code was the easiest yet. Two months for that one, and Travis isn't sure he left his apartment or even slept during that time.

Hacked started out that way. The first half practically flew onto the page, and then—then he got stuck, and he's been that way ever since. He has no idea how to get past it.

XXXX

He tells himself he's going to avoid Inkwell at opening, when Wes is the only one there. He lasts a week, until Clyde mentions Wes's ownership (and also the fact that Wes makes all the pastries, which...Travis doesn't know how he feels about that. The baked good are delicious.)

Then he's wandering the streets early again, watching shops slowly wake up for the day, and he sees that familiar sign and decides he can put up with Wes's assholity for a little while.

Wes is there, already putting his book down before the bell has finished ringing. "House blend?" he asks, already moving.

"And a muffin." Travis steps up to the counter, pointing. "That one."

Wes serves him with his customary silence, picking up his book as soon as he's done. It is, Travis notes, a well-worm copy of Origin Code.

That's the second time he's seen Wes reading his books. Travis's heart does a little happy dance in his chest. Years later and he's still not over it—it's the best feeling, seriously.

"Which DRN is your favorite?" He nods at the book when Wes glances up. He's especially proud of that one, writing half a dozen DRNs and doing his best to make them all different, even though they started out with the same source code. Nature vs nurture, robot-style.

Wes slowly slides his bookmark in, lips twisting as he thinks. "I think I like 271 the most," he decides.

Travis's eyes widen. "The killer? Why?"

What follows is a conversation about violence, mental illness, stigmatization, and robots that lasts until Rozelle comes in for her shift. It's insightful and in-depth, and Travis always enjoys talking about his books but he's not sure he's had such a conversation with someone who seems to know just as much as he does.

Wes is still kind of an asshole. He's prickly and doesn't like people and peppers his speech with disparaging comments.

But he likes Travis's books, so Travis can forgive some of the assholishness.

XXXX

There's a new display in the window, some fantasy series with dragons. Travis is mildly disappointed. Then he goes inside and sees the Ealy display has simply moved to the head of the sci-fi/fantasy section.

"So what's Wes's deal with Ealy?" Travis asks, shamelessly digging for an ego boost. He can use it after this morning's failure of a writing session. "I never see the display come down."

Dakota looks around, then leans in conspiratorially. "The thing is, Wes is a huge Ealy fan."

Travis gasps. "No."

"Oh yes." She nods solemnly. "I might even say Ealy is his favorite author."

The grin on Travis's face isn't just because he's teasing Wes. "Really."

"Mm-hmm. He devours those books." She nods. "He's got two copies of each book. One to read, and one to sit pretty on his shelf."

"Woooow". Travis grins at Wes, who's just emerging from the back. "You're kind of a nerd, aren't you?"

Wes pauses, narrows his eyes. "Shut up. And you." He points accusingly at Dakota. "Stop gossiping and get to work."

"Yeah, yeah." Dakota waits until Wes has gone into the bookshelves before leaning forward and stage-whispering, "He commissions one of the graphic design students to make the display posters. He says it's to help their studies, but mostly—"

"He's just a huge nerd." Travis finishes, saying the last bit loud enough to carry.

Wes pops his head from the bookshelves and glares at him. "Slander! Stop it! Get back to work!"

Dakota rolls her eyes, but her lips are twitching and she winks at him. Travis can't stop beaming.

XXXX

One day, he smuggles a Sharpie into Inkwell. While Wes is at the counter for the lunch rush, Travis sneaks into the shelves and signs every copy of Michael Ealy's books. Someone will get a happy surprise when they open their books.

Then he goes to the romance section and does the same with his Michael Brown books.

It's distraction, pure and simple, but it's more productive than sitting staring at his computer. Might as well have some fun with it.

XXXX

He continues to frequent Inkwell whenever his inspiration is stuck, which, sadly, is still way too often. He goes at all times of the day and gets to know the part time staff.

He starts going in the morning, too, three or four times a week, right at opening when it's just him and Wes. Their conversations range, but are usually about books (and not just Travis's books, he does read other authors okay). Most of the time, their conversations even stay civil.

Every so often it will devolve into petty name-calling and juvenile back and forth of "You're wrong." "No, you're wrong." The first time it happened Travis realized how stupid they sounded and burst out laughing. He even thought he saw Wes crack a smile.

"I think he likes you," Rozelle says one day, after she arrives in time to see Wes throw a wadded-up napkin at Travis's head. The statement makes Travis choke on his coffee, and she smirks, "Or, at least, he likes arguing with you. Not many people will talk to him like you do."

He thinks about that and yeah, he can see it. "Because he's kind of an asshole?"

Her look is fondly exasperated. "Because not many people are willing to get through his crunchy outer layer to get to the gooey, book-nerdy nougat beneath."

Travis pulls a face. "Did you just compare Wes to a candy bar? That's a little disgusting."

She rolls her eyes, shooing him away so she can help the next customer. Travis leans back, watching Wes emerge from the back with a tray of muffins to restock the display case.

Wes catches his eye and sticks out his tongue, which is so delightfully childish Travis bursts out laughing.

"I think he likes you. Or, at least, he likes arguing with you."

Yeah, okay.

XXXX

Truth is, he kind of likes talking to Wes too. He decides this after a three-hour discourse about Valerie Stahl (whose extended role was, in Travis's opinion, the only redeeming aspect of Delete/Restore). They both agree, quite conclusively, that Valerie is amazing, and how can he hate anyone who loves Valerie so much?

And if he didn't enjoy their talks, why would he keep returning to Inkwell at opening, when the only options are to talk or sit in silence? Anyone who knows Travis even a little knows he's not much for sitting in silence.

And the more he talks to Wes, the more he understands the man, and the more he sees why his workers are so fond of him. Wes is blunt; he doesn't hold back even if it's a little rude. But he doesn't go out of his way to be mean. (Sometimes he definitely gets there, but Travis is pretty sure that's just because Wes doesn't have any social skills, not because of any actual malice).

Hacked is still as utterly, desperately stuck as ever. The deadline looms ever closer, but the longer Travis sits at his computer, the more his brain shuts down.

So he starts writing something else, to keep his writing muscles sharp and hopefully jog something loose. It's a story about a cop who's rough and prickly, who is a neat freak and a stickler for the rules, and doesn't make friends for it. And it's about his incredibly personable partner, opposite in every way, which makes them clash again and again. They bicker and fight, but at the end of the day, detectives Wes Mitchell and Travis Marks still care about one another.

It's shameless self-insertion, and a complete self-indulgence. But Travis happily dives into this world of buddy cops and dead bodies, because writing something is better than writing nothing at all.

XXXX

"How's it going, Travis?"

Travis winces, wondering if he could successfully hang up and pretend he never answered at all. But he's been avoiding Paekman's calls for a week now, and the pointed silence on the other end of the line says he can't hide forever.

"Hey, Paekman," Travis chirps brightly, spinning in his chair. "How are you? Still going out with that girl from publishing?"

"How's the book coming along?" Paekman returns, just as brightly.

Travis grimaces. "Um…"

"That's what I thought." A big long sigh. "Travis, I need your manuscript. Even if it's crap, I need something. That's what your editors are here for."

"You and your big red pens of doom," Travis grumbles, guiltily clicking out of his self-indulgent detective story. He opens his draft of Hacked, frowning at the blinking cursor. "Yeah, no, of course I'm working on it. You'll get it in time. Promise."

Paekman has been working with Travis long enough to know when he's lying through his teeth. "Uh-huh. I look forward to receiving it."

"Right." Travis pulls his chair right up to the desk, getting in the zone. "You'll get it soon. ish."

"Good." Paekman hangs up. Travis tosses his phone over his shoulder—no distractions!—and curls his hands over the keyboard. Time to get this thing written!

XXXX

"I'm a failure as a writer," Travis moans, facedown on the table. "I'm a hack. A sham! I should just give up now."

"You're a writer?" Wes asks disbelievingly, wiping down the counter. The smell of glass cleaner is sharp in the air. "What are you writing?" he asks over his shoulder. "What have you written?"

Travis wrote his first novel when he was twenty-two, a soppy, rather cliché romance for his girlfriend at the time, because she liked that sort of thing and he thought it was romantic. She thought it was fantastic, encouraged him to send it somewhere. Travis, being foolishly in love (at the time), gave it a shot.

When it was accepted, Michael Brown's profile picture became a photo of him holding a bouquet of roses in front of his face, because he was twenty-two and embarrassed for writing romantic novels.

Ten years later, his profile picture for Michael Ealy is, in fact, his ex-girlfriend's German Shepherd.

He's done some blog interviews, a couple of times a year, but he's not so supremely popular to make it to TV or anything, bestselling status none withstanding. And Travis is fine with that. He likes the money his books' popularity brings, but he doesn't particularly want the fame. He'll keep his social media private and avoid all the hoopla that goes with stardom.

Travis has thought about telling Wes the truth, about admitting he's not just an avid fan, and there's a reason he knows so damn much about Dorian's world.

He's thought about it—but he's told a few other people before, and things always change. They act different, not like he's Travis Marks, but like he's actually Michael Ealy, like he's more than a mere penname.

Wes is such a book nerd and an Ealy fan already…

Travis is afraid Wes's attitude will change completely. Travis doesn't want that to happen. He likes their chats, and Wes's personality has grown on him. Neither of them have said anything, but Travis is pretty sure they're friends, or something close to it.

Travis doesn't want to lose that, not even a little.

So he fibs.

"They're just little stories," he says with a shrug. "Nothing special."

"Ah." Wes begins changing out the bestseller stand, because it's Tuesday and that's New Release day.

Travis takes Wes's bland disinterest as permission to talk all about his epic writing block. "So the story is from the main character's point of view, right? And it's always so easy to write him, I've never had any trouble getting into his head. But now, halfway through the story, he's been…compromised. And now I can't write him."

He sighs, glaring balefully at his coffee like the delicious house blend is the cause of all his troubles. "It's been almost two months, and I've written about a dozen sentences that I deleted right away 'cuz they sucked."

And my deadline is in less than a month, he adds silently, but it stays tight in his mouth. That would give up the game.

Wes hums absently and continues stacking and organizing. Which, really, is nothing more than Travis expected. He was saying it for his own benefit more than Wes's, hoping talking it out with another person would shake something loose, spark something new, like magic.

But Travis writes sci-fi, not fantasy. There's no such thing as magic, and Travis still has no solution to his writer's block.

It's thirty minutes and half a dozen customers later when Wes clears his throat. Travis crams another bite of pity-party coffee cake in his mouth and raises his eyebrows inquisitively.

Wes wrinkles his nose. "That's lovely. Use your napkin, for god's sake." While Travis obediently wipes his mouth, Wes says, "Have you thought about changing points of view?"

"What?"

"In your story." Wes scowls at the napkin, now abandoned by Travis's plate. "If the main character isn't working out, have you thought about writing from someone else's point of view?"

Travis stares at him.

Travis stares at him some more.

Wes fidgets. "I mean, it was only a thought…"

Travis startles them both by smacking himself in the forehead. "Oh my god, that's brilliant. Why didn't I think of that?"

The blonde relaxes, smirking with one side of his mouth. "Because you're an idiot?"

"Probably." He's too excited to even argue about the insult. Changing characters. It's so simple! He barely remembers to bus his table, mind racing with a sudden flurry of ideas.

"Thanks, babe!" he hollers as he leaves. He's in such a rush he doesn't look back, missing the startled surprise on Wes's face.

XXXX

He sits at his chair. He boots up his computer, the cursor blinking at him, but he stares right back, not daunted for an instant. Now he has a solution.

Okay. Dorian's been compromised, allegiances twisted, files corrupted and messed with. He's no longer the reliable narrator that can be trusted.

So, move to someone else; someone whose judgement hasn't been manipulated. John? No, Travis has always had trouble writing him. Richard has always been too much of a periphery character (which Travis plans to change next book, because Richard is kind of an asshole character like Wes, and that's not as bad as he used to think). Sandra and Rudy are great, but he needs a cop's point of view, someone who's going to be in the thick of things. Which means—

Valerie. Of course.

Travis grins, and he starts writing.

XXXX

He writes for two weeks straight. He doesn't leave the apartment; he ignores the phone. At some point he eats, scavenging for leftovers or ordering takeout, and a couple of times he falls face-first on his bed and sleeps the sleep of the dead.

But every other moment is spent writing, hunched over his keyboard, pounding out the words in a fervor. He doesn't know that he's ever written like this, not even the first book. Even when he tries to take a break, the story relentlessly pushes at him, and he ends up back at his computer in the end.

At the end of the fifteenth day, he doesn't even look over what he wrote. He saves it, sends it to Paekman, then collapses into his bed for fifteen hours straight.

It's done.

XXXX

"I thought you were dead."

Wes's bland, bored statement makes Travis laugh. Oh, he's missed the blonde. He steps inside Inkwell, taking a deep breath of that comforting book/coffee/pastry aroma. It's like something in his soul sits up and stretches luxuriously.

"I was only gone two weeks," he states, looking over the pastries. He's in a celebratory mood, and that chocolate fudge brownie looks utterly delectable.

"And I thought you were dead," Wes repeats dryly, already making up Travis's usual house blend.

"Careful, Wes, keep talking like that and people will think you care or something." Travis gives in and buys the brownie.

Wes rolls his eyes, plating the brownie and handing it over. "So where were you?" he asks.

Travis grins. "Aw, you do care."

The blonde scowls. "You buy a coffee almost every day, and usually some sort of pastry. I would miss your business. You're keeping me in the black."

"Keep telling yourself that, babe." Travis takes a long sip of his coffee—perfect as always. He settles in his usual table, leaning back smugly. "I was writing my story," he announces, taking a triumphant bite of the brownie. Chocolatey goodness explodes on his tongue, and his brain short-circuits a little with pleasure.

"How did it go?" Wes asks, once Travis has come down from his foodgasm.

"Perfect," he mumbles through another mouthful of deliciousness. "Finished it. Your suggestions was genius."

"Good for you," Wes remarks, and he sounds more than halfway sincere. It makes Travis grin.

When he finishes his coffee, Wes gives him a free refill; Travis just barely resists the urge to tease him about it.

XXXX

After the first draft is submitted the long process of editing. The editors send him back page after page of red marks. Travis grudgingly chops and rewrites and makes the suggested changes. He returns it, and a short while later gets it right back, and so it goes.

Almost every morning, Travis goes to Inkwell, orders the house blend (and usually some sort of tasty pastry) and he sits and talks with Wes.

The red pages of edits get smaller. They start talking about cover art and release dates. Travis gets a handful of advance copies.

Release day arrives.

XXXX

A crumpled piece of paper hits him in the face as he enters, and Wes growls, "You bastard."

Travis picks up the paper, flattening it on a table. Then he grins. It's a photocopy of the dedication page of Michael Ealy's new book, because Wes would never ever rip the actual book.

To my favorite coffeeshop critic, the dedication reads, who told me to change points of view, without whom this book wouldn't have been written. This one's for you, babe.

He strolls up to the counter. "So you figured it out."

"Kind of hard not to, with a dedication like that." Wes crosses his arms with a scowl. "You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?"

"But it was so much more fun this way."

"Hmph." Wes turns away with a huff. "No more free refills for you."

Travis laughs, leaning against the counter. It had been a gamble, that dedication. He hadn't known how Wes would react, finding out his favorite author frequented his shop.

But it's a gamble that seems to have paid off. Wes is acting just like normal—not that Travis thought Wes would suddenly become a ravenous fan, but he'd expected some change. Instead, there's Wes, pretending to ignore him while making him coffee.

"I'm going to sign every one of my books in here," he says cheerfully.

"Damn straight you will," Wes glowers at him. "Get off the glass."

Travis obediently shifts to the countertop. "I think you'll like my next book." He tells Wes, and Wes doesn't look at him but he's totally listening. "It's going to be all about Valerie and the world of chromes. Because, as we can all agree, Valerie is awesome."

Wes pushes his mug at him and agrees, "She is amazing."

"Yup." Travis wraps his fingers around the mug, inhaling the steam. "I'm thinking of calling it Blood-Red Chrome."

"That's a ridiculous title."

"You're just jealous."

Wes throws a napkin at his head.

Travis laughs, and as he goes to his usual spot, he thinks he's awfully lucky he stumbled into this little shop.

"I'm writing a new story." he says absently. "About a finicky cop and his maverick partner."

Wes freezes in his tracks, eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare."

He throws his head back and laughs again, and the familiar warm scent of books and coffee and sugar wraps around him like a hug.

OOOO

I know nothing about what it takes to publish a book, and I'm too lazy to look anything up. If any details are wrong, that's on me.

Michael Ealy is, of course, the actor who plays Travis. Michael Brown is Michael Ealy's real name.

The world of Dorian that Travis is writing about is 100% from Almost Human, a 2013 TV show that Michael Ealy also starred in, and if you haven't seen it you should check it out because it is amazing and was cancelled much too soon.

Thanks for reading. Until next time!