Note:
This is the same Cullen and Anwen Trevelyan from my "Not the Dog!" Halloween one-shot. I'd really intended for that story to be a modern AU one-off but then I felt compelled to carry on writing about them.
So this is the first time they met. Anwen works for an NGO, flying home after a long trip to Iraq. And Cullen works in the security sector.
I'm bizarrely attached to these two nerds so there'll probably be more about them. Get ready for the NGO AU that no one asked for but I'm writing anyway!
While of course no one enjoyed being stuck in an airport waiting for a delayed flight, Anwen thought that there was something uniquely terrible about her current predicament.
Having spent the last three weeks touring the deserts of southern Iraq, which was exactly as glamourous as it sounds, she desperately just wanted to go home. She wanted to eat something other than grease-laden pizza and chips from compound cafeterias; wash the sand from where it had resolutely lodged itself in the various nooks and crannies of her body; and look upon a vista that was not just featureless brown stretching out as far as the eyes could see.
It had been great to see first-hand the progress being made by the assorted projects she managed, the women's driving school in Jumeirah had been a particular highlight of her visit, but three weeks was a long time to spend in a recovering war zone and Anwen was ashamed to admit that she missed her creature comforts. Basrah Airport didn't even have a coffee shop, just a lone waiting room festooned in a curious colour-scheme of assorted browns and oranges, and a hideously over-priced gift shop.
She walked down the aisle of the shop, running her finger across the tops of the assorted chocolate varieties, and wondered whether she really wanted to fork out so much money for what was undoubtedly an immensely under-whelming confectionary experience. But she had promised Sera she would bring her back something from her trip and so, with a sigh as frustrated as it was resigned, she plucked two slabs from the shelf and took them to the register.
Emerging from the shop with her dubious gift in hand, Anwen surveyed the crowded waiting room in search of somewhere to sit; pointedly ignoring the intense stares directed her way. She'd travelled extensively throughout the Middle East and North Africa over the last two years and while she rarely felt threatened, the constant staring was a little unnerving. It wasn't so bad in the main cities but Basrah was relatively remote, and western women a rare sight.
With immense relief, she spotted a familiar face among the bustle of irate travellers, sitting with a potted plant to one side and, fortunately, an unoccupied seat on the other. While they'd never spoken, she'd seen him numerous times over the years: once at a conference on water scarcity in Tunis, another at a conflict stability round-table at the UK embassy in Kabul. He was tall and well-built, with blonde curls and classically well-defined features, and if she was completely honest with herself, he had become the highlight of these long trips away from home. She looked out for him at every event she attended, felt a pang of disappointment whenever she discovered he wasn't there. She was embarrassed at how often she'd found herself admiring him, the sharp curve of his jaw, the pull of his shirt across a well-toned chest, when she should have been concentrating on taking notes.
She hurried over to where he sat; partly fearing someone would take the spare seat and partly just eager to finally have an excuse to talk to him.
"Is this seat free?" she asked, feeling a little guilty when he startled at her interruption.
"Of-of course," he replied, waving at the seat in question in an open invitation.
"Thanks," she said brightly, dropping her carry-all to the floor and settling herself into the chair. She smiled to herself; first contact had been made. Everything was going superbly so far and all she had to do now was think of some fantastically brilliant conversation starter.
Bugger.
For a while they sat in uncomfortable silence, both looking around the room as if it was the most fascinating sight they had ever laid eyes on rather than possibly the grimmest airport lounge in existence. He turned as if to say something to her but then clearly thought better of it and turned back, eyebrows furrowed and mouth drawn into a thin line.
"Cullen, right?" she asked, making him start once more.
"Yes," he said with surprise, "how did you know?"
She gestured at the nametag adorning his shirt, delighting in the slight blush that came to his cheeks as he fumbled to remove it. "Ah – yes – I forgot I still had it on."
Of course she'd known his name even without the nametag, had looked it up in a conference attendance list several months ago like the creepy stalker that she was. But he didn't need to know that.
"And you're Anwen."
"Yes," she said, her time to be surprised, "how did you-"
"I looked it up in a conference attendance list," he interrupted, smiling shyly, "we go to a lot of the same events."
She returned his smile with one of her own, warm and crooked, perhaps a little too broad, too eager. But he'd admitted to looking her up and the thought made her heart do this odd stuttering thing in her chest.
"We do," she agreed, "have you been here for the UNHCR event?"
He nodded. "What about you? I didn't see you there."
A little shiver thrilled along her spine; he'd noticed her absence.
"I'd wanted to go but it clashed with something else in my diary. I've been visiting Inquisition projects throughout Basrah. There's some really great work going on around Zubair." She leant forward to rummage through her bag, pulled out her ipad to bring up her calendar. "What have you got coming up? We should arrange something – it's always nice to have someone to talk to at these things." She hoped her voice sounded nonchalant, feared it sounded desperate.
He peered at her ipad for a moment then gave a tiny shake of his head before turning to rummage through his own bag. When he turned back to her, he was wearing a pair of glasses.
Well fuck me.
The thin, black frames added warmth to his eyes, drew attention to his delightfully expressive eyebrows. Somehow, they managed to make his jaw look even more defined, strong and square. While she'd always thought he was cute, she was now faced with the astonishing realisation that he was perhaps the most attractive man she'd ever encountered.
"Look," he said, interrupting her reverie as he pointed to her calendar, "we're both going to the defence sector conference in London next month. And then we're both in Dubai the week after."
She dimly registered that he was looking at her expectantly but was too preoccupied with his bespectacled face to think of something to say. She should probably say something immensely witty, or profoundly urbane, perhaps some keen insight on the economic problems facing the Kurdish people of eastern Turkey. Instead she fumbled out a rushed, "I know great food in London!"
"What was that?" he said, looking somewhat taken aback with her sudden outburst after her peculiarly drawn out moment of silence.
"I mean – I know a great café right next to the conference hall in London. We should meet up for coffee. We can recuperate with caffeine between the longer sessions," she shrugged in what she hoped was a gesture of casual suaveness.
"I'd like that," he said, his lips curling into a gentle smile that made her heart go from syncopated stuttering to full pounding.
Perhaps delayed flights weren't so terrible after all.