Quodlibet (Latin: "what pleases"): a light-hearted composition combining several different melodies.
This little oneshot will serve as an introduction to a series of scenes about Hawke and Fenris in this modern, college-town version of Kirkwall. Written for SinsofMidnight's Writing Challenge: Prompt 4 "Reader Insert." Future chapters will be responses to other prompts from the same challenge (and will vary in style and perspective). Characters from DA:O, DA:A, and DA:2 may appear. And Double Hazelnut Soy Latte and Real Macchiato from Antiva is for Awinters25 – TeamAngst (you'll see). ;)
You hate working Saturday mornings.
Saturdays bring in extra people. People you don't know. People who don't know you. People who are completely inept at ordering coffee.
We don't have a "grande" anything. Did you want a 12 ounce or a 16 ounce?
Yes, that is what you ordered. A macchiato is a shot of espresso with a splash of milk. I can make you a vanilla latte with caramel on top, if that's what you meant.
No, we don't have a pumpkin latte. That's disgusting. Squash does not belong in coffee. Go. Away.
You have dreamed of saying that last one out loud, but you don't because you do like your job.
Just not on Saturday mornings.
But when Norah called and begged, you couldn't help but agree to swap shifts. It's not every day her long-distance boyfriend comes into town for a visit (and you are, after all, a hopeless romantic).
You aren't sure what to think when you see some of your weekday regulars there. It feels off. You decide "surreal" is the right word for it when two of your favorites show up at about the same time. They are never there at the same time, but now they are standing in the same line.
Cappuccino-Coffee, who is always polite but never smiles, orders the same drink combo as always before dumping his messenger bag at one of the few empty seats at the long counter facing the window.
As soon as he is out of range, Hawke—who introduced herself the second time she ordered a drink from you—leans close and whispers, "I've never seen someone double-fisting their caffeine before."
You try not to laugh. It only sort of works.
"I've never seen him double-fisting," you reply, writing down the café au lait you know she is going to order. "He drinks the capp and refills the cup with coffee after."
"And you charge him for the refill?" She hands you exact change.
You shake your head. "Just like I don't charge you for your second au lait." (You don't explain that he always puts the cost of the coffee in the tip jar, like he's paying for a separate drink.)
Hawke grins at you, and you can't help but grin back. She's like that. Even when you're in a bad mood because you got stuck with a Saturday morning shift, she can make you smile. This is why she's one of your favorites.
You watch Hawke cross the room and settle her own bag in the only empty seat left, right next to Cappuccino-Coffee. You imagine she said hello to him and, most likely, asked if it was okay for her to sit there. You wonder if she can make him smile, too. He rarely smiles.
You continue to greet customers, take orders, count change, and swipe credit cards, but at the back of your mind, you are considering your two favorite regulars.
Hawke has been coming in for her afternoon au lait (sometimes two) for nearly a year. Unlike most of the others, who you only know by drink order, Hawke took the time to introduce herself. On slow days, she would chat with you while you poured coffee and steamed the milk. You know she is from Ferelden, you know she is a music major, and you know she is close friends with the blonde with chest hair that everyone in the café is in love with (Americano With Room) and the Rivaini woman who flirts with everything (Dirty Chai). You also know that it's impossible to get through a shift without laughing when all three of them are there together.
Cappuccino-Coffee only started coming regularly a couple months ago. He doesn't talk to you much beyond ordering. What you know of him, you have discerned from watching him—but you do watch him a lot. It's hard not to. He's beautiful (and you have absolutely no issues calling a man beautiful). It was the silver-white hair and the tattoos curling like vines up his arms that first caught your attention. His accent is faint, but you can tell he's from Tevinter—or, at least, has spent a fair amount of time there. From the books he is often reading, you can guess he's studying philosophy or political science (or maybe both). And from the infrequency of his smile and his insistence on paying for the coffee refills, you can tell he takes things much too seriously.
You glance back over at the two and find yourself smiling. You have never seen them in the cafe together before, but seeing them sitting side-by-side at the window, you can't help but think they would make a good pair. Both foreign to the Free Marches, both committed enough to school to spend hours each day studying, and both relative traditionalists with their coffee (it means something; it really does). And with Hawke's lively personality and Cappuccino-Coffee's solemn demeanor, they would probably balance each other out nicely. Opposites attract, yin and yang, all of that stuff.
You are actually pleased when it is your turn to make a circuit around the café and bus tables. It means you finally have a moment to stretch your back and roll your shoulders. Of course, you also have to pick up dishes that got left behind by the jerks who don't realize there is a bin for dirty dishes right next to the door. You are amazed that the college students who frequent the café clean up after themselves better than the so-called adults who come in on Saturday mornings.
You pass Hawke and Cappuccino-Coffee, both with laptops out and books open. You don't mean to eavesdrop. You really don't. But it's hard to not listen to Hawke when you spot the grin on her face. It's a near-perfect copy to the one her Rivaini friend always uses.
"I can't imagine why they'd be put off."
The over-the-top flirtatious tone of her voice makes you want to roll your eyes. Instead, you nearly trip over your own feet at the sound of the rich chuckle she gets in response.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Of course. It's Hawke. She didn't just get him to smile; she got him to laugh.
As you carry the bin of dirty dishes to the back, you realize just how good they would look together. He is shorter-than-average, but so is she. They may even be about the same height. You picture them standing together: her confident posture and his ever-present slouch, his wide, green eyes brighter next to her easy smile, her copper hair richer next to his olive skin.
And then you wonder if you can pair up any of your other regulars.
As soon as the thought crosses your mind, you realize how perfect that handsome Double Hazelnut Soy Latte fellow would be with Real Macchiato from Antiva, all blonde hair and cheeky grins and filthy jokes.
While separating garbage from dishes and plates from mugs, you debate the merits of White Mocha, Extra Whip with the other White Mocha—the one you are convinced is the long, lost brother of Double Hazelnut Soy Latte—but you quickly decide the amount of innocence and naiveté between the two White Mochas would be probably be disastrous. Hawke's friend, Dirty Chai, corrupting the innocence of little White Mocha, Extra Whip, however, would be great.
You consider the other White Mocha again, testing the idea of him with Boring Black Tea (except he's a little too devout) or Nonfat Decaf Iced Latte (except she's a little too Orlesian), but ultimately you decide to selfishly keep him for yourself. You wonder if that's taking the shipping a little too far. But then you remind yourself that you are shipping your regulars and that none of these ships are real. You're allowed to think about White Mocha and his lovely smile all you want. And maybe someday you'll even work up the nerve to ask him his name.
You have to put your shipping plans on hold as another rush comes in and you are called back out front to make drinks. Lost in the movement of drink after drink, you almost miss the to-go order of a dirty chai and an Americano as a signal of Hawke's friends arriving.
You glance up to find Hawke saying goodbye to Cappuccino-Coffee and placing both her mug and his mug in the dish bin. She looks over at her friends, who are standing right across the counter from you, and waves.
"New friend, Hawke?" Americano With Room arches an eyebrow as Hawke approaches.
"Maybe." Hawke shrugs, but even you noticed her blushing as she does. You have never seen Hawke blush before.
Dirty Chai chuckles. "Someone's smitten."
"I am not," Hawke argues.
But the color in her cheeks deepens, giving her away, and Dirty Chai just rolls her eyes.
You can't resist the opportunity. You set the two drinks on the counter and catch Hawke's eye.
"He comes in every morning around 8:45."
Hawke stares at you for a moment while her friends burst into laughter beside her. Then she mouths a quick "thank you" before grabbing her friends' drinks and turning on her heel.
"You're all assholes," she calls over her shoulder, garnering a few glares from customers nearby.
"Hey!" Dirty Chai immediately jogs after her. Americano With Room winks at you before following the women out the door.
Smiling to yourself, you decide that Hawke probably just turned from an afternoon regular to a morning regular. Shipping your regulars could be fun. And maybe, just maybe, you don't hate Saturday mornings so much after all.