The coffee house sits somewhere in the middle of the market, not quite the chrome and glass opulence of a chain stores but certainly not the school canteen rejects you'd find sometimes out in the burbs.
The customers are the usual collection, the business men grabbing something on the fly; the small gaggle of girls catching up on gossip and the students surrounded by paperwork and old, used, cups.
The employees too feel familiar, the overly enthusiastic newbie, the old hat who has the sourest of faces and the quiet one who seems just a little out of place in this sort of environment.
The lunch rush has just abandoned ship and there's a happy little atmosphere in the air that makes the frowning face in the window seat all the more obvious.
The owner of the face looks like your typical 20 something, bedecked in an overly causal combination of jenes and over sized plaid shirt, and sporting an almost bowl shaped head of hair that is most likely deliberately just a little outside the norm.
His name is Ian Hecox and currently he's operating on ten minutes solid sleep and enough caffeine to fuel a small army, which means when the happy little enquiry of 'you know what the time is right?' Rolls in he can't stop the snark response of,
'I'm not two Mari.'
'Ok, good, that means it's not your lazy ass face I'm seeing through the Crimson's window then.'
Oh he's dead, so so dead, still that doesn't excuse bad manners and he makes sure to leave a tip before oh so slowly making his way out to the street.
There waiting for him, dressed in her usual eclectic mix, is the one and only Mari Ovenshire literary agent and best friend extrodinar.
"So, it's two pm, that short story is due at quarter past and your ogling tall dark and handsome. Again."
"Sorry?" Big puppy eyes because he knows she's subseptable no matter how much she plays at being a hard ass and after a moment she's crumbling the loudest of sighs,
"At least tell me you actually talked to him today. You know struck up a conversation like a normal person?"
"I'm quite happy just looking thanks."
"Not everyone is Lucy, Ian."
It's been a year.
A year since he walked into what was going to be their bedroom to find her tangled up in another man.
A year since she'd told him straight to his face that she'd only ever been using him for the money, that he was a sad, pathetic, man who needed to grow up and get a life.
A goddamned year and still even the sound of her name cut like a knife.
Mari sees that well and instantly she's looping him a tight, one armed, hug and murmuring,
"Sorry, that was a little hard, but you know what I was getting at right? I mean this is the first I've seen you so muddled by someone since...then...and honestly what harm could come from at least asking after his name?" A wicked little smile and then a piece of paper is being thrust in his general direction, "besides the hubbie made you fanart and that basically means its destiny now right?"
It's beautiful no matter the rushed, almost sketchy, composition, the image a re-imagining of the cover art his latest 'masterpiece' where he stands in place the buxom heroine, wrapped tight and secure a fairly good likeness the young waiter.
It has him laughing, which in turn, elevates his mood back out the depression quagmire and, squeezing her shoulder firmly he states,
"You're the best!"
"I know!" With which she's pulling free a firm, "Anyways enough of all that soppy stuff, you still owe me a manuscript mr."
"Yeh yeh, I'm pegging it to the Nest as we speak!"
Of course now his good moods mostly recovered he can't quite resist messing with her by casually sauntering away, breaking into a more enthused pace when her mouth flattens in the way that can only mean trouble.
The Nest had once been a large, open plan, office that Mari had bought early in her career some aspiration that'd faded as practicality won over and that, these days, served as part work station, part clubhouse for her biggest sellers.
He's greeted a powerful track from the OST for Twilight Princess as he opens the door, the shear enthusiasm of the the music providing motivation enough that, suddenly, anything seems possible.
Even submitting something half way decent by the cut off point.
Five seconds precisely after squishing into his chair that flys out of the window as his booth buddy, David 'lazercorn' ,who was currently being haled as the next Neil Gaeman by pretty well every literary critic who mattered, slumps dramatically into view with a despondent,
"I hate today."
Ten minutes.
He's been stuck in place basically the fortnight he's had to work on the piece, his brain tangling more and more in on itself as the frustration had set in.
Eventually driven to utter desperation he'd gone to Crimson for a coffee as well as a little mental distraction and, for a minute he'd been certain the risk had paid off.
Written paragraph after paragraph in some giddy high that'd come grinding halt the moment he'd realised that he was doing IT again.
Which all boiled down to him having only ten measly minutes left in which to produce something brand spanking new basically out of his ass.
He knows Mari would never cast him off simply for fudging up on something that's basically a way to keep his pen name in the public conscious between novels. That, for all the bad business practice it makes, each and every one of the residents of the Nest are treated a great deal more like her friends than her staff, but...
...he's heard the stories and he really, REALLY, doesn't want to properly get on her bad-side if he can help it.
Still David really does look like he could do with a friend and, as a romance novelist, compassion's basically hard wired into him, which means, of course, that he can't exactly ignore his plight.
Backed so far into a corner there's only really one choice and, so, SO, aware that there will be consequences, he submits the thing he'd created while in Crimson.
With no going back he shunts the entire issue somewhere that his subcontious can play with it, rescues the box of Oreos from his bottom draw and, with a subtle shake of the box just above David's ear, he states,
"Spill."
One hand snakes out to snatch a cookie and, after a few moments of little other than crunching, a muffled voice states,
"So the car broke down right in rush hour traffic, there was a fricking freak rainstorm as I walked for twenty minutes strait just to get to a garage who, apparently, won't tow unless your registered with them and then while I'm walking the two blocks to a garage that will tow Amie rings to bitch me out about not buying non dairy ice cream and other such hormone related fun." Another stolen cookie and then green eyes are glaring out at him from the gloom, "finally to top it all off I come here to my one sure safe space, my port amid a storm, to find Mr and Mrs Mari gossiping about a certain someone's guy crush. I mean I thought we had a deal dude, the moment you decide you wanna try guy for a bit you come to me. Team Iancorn forever and all that jazz!"
"Yeh well then you went and got a chick knocked up."
"Oh Amie is totally on board, in fact she told me that you'd be the only person she'd forgive me cheating on her with."
"Seriously?"
"Yeh well hormones. Also she thinks Iancorn is a kickass ship name."
"Which it is." A beat in which yet another cookie is pulled into the 'den of wo' then, "how's it all going anyway?"
As predicted his friend is instantly up and out of his chair, riffling through his drawer in search of what proves a high definition sonogram,
"You owe me fifty."
"A girl then?"
"Mm hm and the midwife says she's gonna be a long, strangely thing just like her mom."
"Any names?"
"Actually seeing as you totally 100% are the reason I even met Amie we both agreed the baby should be named after you, but Ian is totally the dudeiest of dude names so now we know she's going to be a girl..."
"Your using my pen name."
"Only if you really don't mind, I mean I get that maybe it'd be nice to not constantly be reminded that a good portion of the reading world thinks your a girl and as her godfather you're going to be around baby a lot so if we did call her Melissa that's going to happen..."
"David it's fine, in fact I like that it'll be like an in joke kind of thing that she's named for me at all." A true smile, then, "do you really want me to be godfather?"
"Duh who else would I ask? Anyway this way you can come over all the time without anyone asking questions."
"Apparently I've cart Blanche anyways as far as the Mrs is concerned."
Which has him laughing properly, all trace of his previous mood vanished like smoke,
"You are the best dude, seriously."
"What are friends for?"
"True," with which the cookie box is being stolen from his grasp and shaken in front of him a firm, "so spill."
"I'm an airhead and left my USB stick at Crimson, Stevie recognised it and got the new guy to ring me at home to let me know what'd happened. This dude has, I swear to you, a voice like goddamned melted chocolate so I drop everything to go get the stick to see if his face is any sort of match and whoo boy was it."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Huh, you know Mari is making it sound like this massive love affair right?"
"Oh I have artistic evidence of the fact."
As he presents David with the picture the other man's face widens a genuine sort of shock before,
"Wow the world really is tiny."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning the guy holding shojou you in his 'manly embrace' is mr Anthony Padilla, Amie's best friend and the guy who'd help you raise Melissa if worst came to worst."