A Cup of Kindness
Annabelle's eyes wandered toward the wide coffee shop window. Her attention extended beyond the transparent glass as she watched a light flurry of snowflakes gradually flutter to the ground. But the weather quickly worsened. Now a gentle downpour of white fell consistently from the ash-gray sky, and Annabelle idly noted the few people, dressed in many layers, in the streets pick up their pace. It seemed that they wanted to escape the icy grip of the unforgiving weather.
Her bored eyes lazily leapt from figure to figure, her focus brief and cursory.
A man in a leather jacket quickly strode in front of the coffee shop window. Across the street a middle-aged man and woman grabbed hands and jogged diagonally to her side of the street. Annabelle watched a few more colorfully clothed stragglers continue on, unaffected by the weather. A black Suburban drove in front of the coffee shop, briefly blocking her view, and then it pulled away, rounding the corner.
That's when she saw him.
A pale raven-haired man in a black suit with a green scarf.
Her eyes, now curious, lingered on him.
He sat on a snowy bus bench on the other side of the street. From the faraway look on his face, she guessed he was lost in thought. He looked no different than anyone else on the street, but he was. She could feel it. And there was something striking about him – something strange, something…off. It was not the same 'off' feeling of someone up to no good or hiding some mischief; rather, he felt 'off' as in something was wrong with him. He permeated it – in the distant look in his slate-green eyes, the slight downward curl of his wide lips, the quiet slump of his broad shoulders, the slouched curve of his posture, the white snow in his dark hair and on his shoulders…
It was very subtle and easy to miss, even for a practiced eye and especially for those who aren't looking for such signs, but Annabelle had neither a keen eye nor had she been looking for it. In her unfocused and detached boredom, she had been lucky to spot it. But now that she had, she could see it. And the longer she stared, the better she could see it – the offness, the unnamable difference that was calling out to her, silently crying out…
What was it?
Annabelle frowned, tilting her head as she squinted at the stranger. She wished she could put a name to what was pulling her to him. She knew she had experienced something similar before, and that was how she recognized it; and frustratingly, Annabelle knew that hidden within her subconscious, she did know what was drawing her in. Though she couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, she had a tenuous suspicion that something was wrong. He was missing something…
Then it hit her.
Tea.
It seemed utterly ridiculous, and Annabelle had no idea why, but she felt compelled to bring him in the shop and give him a cup of tea. It didn't make sense. But something – her subconscious? – told her that he needed it. And she had to give it to him. It was important – so important that she felt strongly drawn to him. Compelled to reach out to him, take him out of the cold and the snow, and bring him inside…
She had to go to him…had to go to him now.
It was important. Urgent.
The longer Annabelle stared at him, the stronger she felt the pull.
Before she realized it, she was out the door. She was bewildered to find herself hurrying across the street (without looking both ways first) and heading toward him. He seemed oblivious to her approach, still staring intently at nothing. He didn't turn his head or acknowledge her presence when she stopped beside him.
"Um, excuse me," she said, her voice low. "Would you like a cup of tea?" She spoke before whatever madness had driven her out here disappeared.
At first he didn't move or react at all, and Annabelle assumed he didn't hear her softly spoken question. Her voice had been pretty quiet. But just as she considered asking again, the raven-haired man turned his head, tilting it up to look at her. His smooth expression was inscrutable, and his light eyes were equally unreadable. "No thank you."
His words were dismissive, and his tone was of respectful disinterest; they both stung her a little, but his voice, though smooth and polite, belied a…a faint heaviness, a weariness. The offness again. Whatever it was, it went very deep.
"Please?" She smiled. "It's on the house." The foolishness of her idea began to creep upon her, and outside of the shop, in the cold and blustery weather, her insanity-inspired courage started to fade.
He said nothing; only stared intently up at her with those light green eyes, his brow slightly creased. Under his intense scrutiny, her courage quickly withered away, dying with a whimper. Her smile felt brittle and forced. It was evident from his expression that he didn't believe her. He probably thought she was pushing her sales on him, and that was what any sane person would suspect. Even for the Christmas season – the time of year for generosity and giving – it was probably unusual to be boldly waylaid by an adolescent girl, who was offering free tea. She wasn't even normally brave enough to approach strangers!
I've gone mad, she thought despairingly, still holding her brittle smile. Why did I ever think that this strange man needed tea?
In order to save face and gracefully flee the situation, as well as try to convince him one last time, Annabelle sweetened the offer. "You can have whatever you want. It doesn't have to be tea, and you can have however much you want. I'll pay for it," she insisted.
Both of her hands came to life then (much to her shock) – reaching out impulsively and grabbing either side of his closest hand, which was larger and paler than her own; then gently but firmly, her small hands tugged his toward her like a child tugging insistently on their parent's hand when they want to lead them somewhere. Even years afterward, whenever Annabelle reflected upon this incident, she had no idea what impulse took hold of her.
The raven-haired man seemed equally taken aback. His dark eyebrows shot up as he glanced at his captive hand, and then sharply looked up at her face. He didn't glare at her or jerk his hand away like she expected; instead, his surprise altered to mild curiosity. "Very well," he acquiesced, standing and leaving his hand in both of hers.
They trudged back into the coffee shop together, fighting the snow, her leading the way. She dropped his hand to open the door; he brushed past her without a word of thanks, and it struck her that he was used to doors being opened for him. She entered after him and halted, readjusting to the drastic change from the frosty weather and the clean smell of smoke and young evergreens. The shop was so warm that Annabelle's cheeks flushed from the heat, and the strong aroma of coffee dominated the air.
"What would you like?" she asked politely, looking up at him.
The dark-haired man with the green scarf, who seemed unaffected by cold and heat and the pungent smell of coffee, glanced at the large menu on the wall. "A cup of Earl Grey tea, please. Warm, not hot." He paused, and she opened her mouth to ask him a question, but he correctly anticipated her query. "Milk." He gave her a look. "Just a splash."
Shutting her mouth, Annabelle nodded, brushed the melting snowflakes from her arms and shoulders, and rolled up her sleeves. Overhead on the speakers Faith Hill was singing the first few verses of Where Are You Christmas? as she stepped behind the counter and began to work.
My world is changing.
I'm rearranging.
Does that mean Christmas changes too?
Where are you Christmas?
Do you remember
The one you used to know
I'm not the same one
See what time's done
Is that why you have let me g—
Annabelle changed the song.
She couldn't stand it anymore – the mournful piano, the sadness in Faith Hill's voice, the hollowness and grief in the lyrics. Her heart ached, silently crying. The message hit much too close to home. In her opinion, Where Are You Christmas? was far too sad for a Christmas song, and much sadder than any holiday song ought to be. She would cry if she listened to any more, and so she changed the tune. The one she chose was also sad, but it reflected upon happier times and warm memories with the hope that they would return.
Candles in the window,
Shadows painting the ceiling…
A glance at the stranger showed her that he had chosen a window seat; gone was the powdery snow in his slicked back hair and on his broad shoulders. He also had removed his black overcoat, likely placing it beside him on the bench seat. And he was watching her, staring, with a strange intensity.
She quickly looked down at the steaming tea. Why is he looking at me like that? He probably thinks I'm a loony.
A remnant of her earlier premonition – once powerful, but now a shy echo – returned. With it, her courage revived a little. This is for his own good, Annabelle told herself. He needs this. I don't know why, but he does. And she believed with all her heart that he did. Somehow the cup of tea would cure whatever was wrong with him.
Gazing at the fire glow,
Feeling that gingerbread feeling…
Annabelle carefully carried his steaming tea to him, her fragile resolve strengthened by her desire to do good and by the gentle melody overhead. The dark-haired man watched her every step of the way. From behind the counter to the edge of his table, his slate-green eyes never left her. For some reason, he seemed… amused?
Precious moments,
Special people…
He was silently laughing at her, although Annabelle had no idea why. But the mischievous light in his now smiling eyes distracted her from his mild, unspoken mockery - reminding her of Kevin McAllister from Home Alone – and she thought the first half of the song she chose suited him well. When the offness wasn't prevalent, he was certainly impish.
She set down the cup in front of him. "Here you are," she said quietly, her lips curled into a genuine and heartfelt smile.
Suddenly his amusement fell away. "Is it poisoned?" he asked, serious.
She responded just as seriously. "No. Would you like it poisoned?"
"No thank you," he said with a smile and a chuckle.
She turned away from him, intending to give him some privacy, when he grabbed her arm. Her eyebrows shot up like his had earlier, and her wide eyes darted from her captured forearm to his pale face with surprise. For the first time, her eyes made contact with his.
"Why?"
Happy faces,
I can see…
Annabelle tilted her head to the side, confused. "Why what?"
"Why did you do this for me?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "You looked like you needed a cup of tea."
His grip loosened on her forearm, and he frowned, evidently puzzled. "I wasn't cold." His face was unreadable again; however, his eyes weren't. They were cool, curious, and had a small but distinct gleam of offness. He was probing her for something.
Somewhere in my mem'ry,
Christmas joys all around me,
Living in my mem'ry...
"You didn't look cold," she said impulsively. Flushing with embarrassment, she broke eye contact. "It's just...There was something about you that said you needed that." Annabelle gestured to the almost forgotten Earl Grey with her free hand. He continued to stare at her, and her cheeks burned all the more. "It's difficult to explain."
"Think on it," he said, his fingers sliding down her arm as he withdrew his hand. "I am looking forward to your explanation."
Still flustered, Annabelle retreated behind the counter and thought on it. She was flummoxed. How does one explain a feeling? Or explain the motivation for acting on a hunch? Hunches were tricky things, and feelings even more so. She couldn't explain either to him, especially because she could not even fully explain them to herself. Leaning her forearms on the counter, shutting her eyes, Annabelle tried to recall what caught her attention. Of all the passers-by, what made him unique?
A singular quality – one she could see threaded in his eyes, his face, his posture, his voice…A quality that screamed that something was wrong with him. The answer was slippery and kept just beyond her reach, but this time she fought to pinpoint what it was.
All of the music…
"Another, please."
She started, surprised to find the subject of her thoughts standing on the other side of the counter; an empty cup sat between them. Impressed, Annabelle couldn't help but say, "That was fast" as she took the cup. Obediently, she started making another Earl Grey.
"I was thirsty," was his modest response.
All of the magic…
"If I did not look cold, what about my appearance suggested that I needed tea?"
Annabelle picked up his used cup and held it, turning it in her hand. "There was something different about you," she said, starting slowly, considering. His eyebrows rose archly. "Not different in a bad way. I mean different as in…um, well…" Her tongue got tied.
Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind. He was intrigued. "Can you still see it?"
She looked at him – really looked this time, and there was no hesitation or doubt in her reply. "Yes." Then she frowned. "But it's a little different than before…and it seems more…painful?" Her forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows drew together and she squinted at him. Yes, he was definitely in pain – hurt and something else, a mournful emptiness. "Did you…Did you lose something recently?"
"No." He said the word so decisively and coldly that she knew, without a doubt, it was a lie.
All of the fam'ly home here with me…
But she did not pry or push him for answers; it was not her place to ask questions. Instead, Annabelle presented him with his second Earl Grey – also with a splash of milk. He sipped it slowly and quietly, and conversation between them died. Carol of the Bells spared them from an awkward silence. Outside the heavy downpour of slushy white snow lightened to the occasional snowflake riding the chilly wind, and Annabelle traced invisible, nonsensical symbols on the wooden countertop. She continued doing this until the raven-haired man placed his second empty mug in front of her.
Grabbing a green-striped candy cane from a neat pile, she offered it to him on the palms of her hands with a shy smile. "Merry Christmas."
Their eyes met again and with a quiet rush of happiness, she noticed that the offness was gone. The Earl Grey tea seemed to have soothed away his pain and filled in the hollowness he had given off earlier. She was genuinely glad for him.
He picked it up delicately with two fingers and held it in his hand. "Thank you," he said with his own small, warm smile and although Annabelle would never know it, Loki meant it.
"You're welcome."
She watched him go, silently wishing him all the kindness and happiness in the world.
AN: Inspired by the depressing things I've encountered lately - the lasting effects of Hurricane Sandy, the Sandy Hook school shooting in Connecticut, the revealing of Kurapika's backstory in the most recent HunterxHunter update, the death of someone in Naruto manga (Chapter 614), and the endings of multiple fanfics that I have been reading (most of them with sad endings). This December hasn't exactly been filled with Christmas cheer. However, it does not do to dwell on dark matters and forget that there is more to life than darkness and sorrow. May this fanfic be a warm light to you in sad, dark times. Merry Christmas! And did anyone catch the two Thor movie references hidden in here?
Disclaimer: I don't own Where Are You Christmas? sung by Faith Hill, or Main Title of Home Alone (Somewhere in My Memory) by John Williams. Well, technically I do own them, seeing as I bought them, but you know...that doesn't really count, does it?