Coffeeshop Blues

Author's Note: I heart Fire Emblem. I really do. Why else would I churn out nothing but Fire Emblem fics? (insert cheesy sigh here) I need a new fandom. I've been playing that new Tales of Symphonia game...I just need something good to go off of, but the game isn't all that great and doesn't inspire much...or something really stupid to make a crack fic. :D

To clear things up in the last story "Haunted"...Ike is dead. He might have died early, and thus his ghost is young in appearance also, or have died relatively recent to Elincia's, yet in his afterlife took on the appearance of his youth. He came back to Elincia to take her into the afterlife and sort of a sign of forgiveness for the things she did in the past. It's all kind of like in the motion picture Atonement, Robbie sees his mom and dies shortly afterward? I didn't make the whole scenario very clear, and I apologize.

But this is crack! so ANYTHING GOES! (or kind of crack. this isn't cracked up enough to be real crack..but it does 1. have no real point/moral, 2. have humor, 3. spawned from bored inspiration) I offer you biscotti.

Just kidding.

Have some soy crisps instead.

Oh, and much thanks to FireEdge. I'm stealing your idea of an AU Fire Emblem 9/10 fic. I haven't seen very many (are there any besides yours...?) and so...

Love,
Ridell

COFFEESHOP BLUES

Calill hated running the local coffee shop Get Axed, really, she did. Who named a coffee shop Get Axed, anyway? What a weird fellow. But still, she considered, it would be better than naming a little shop Get Lanced or Get Sworded (was that even a word?). She contemplated the matter with a furrowed brow as she poured a fifth cup of joe to a tired, dark-complexioned customer with an eye-patch at the bar. Though he frequented the place often, Calill never asked his name. Not that she needed to, because his tacky plastic nametag read "HAAR" and his uniform clearly identified him as a UPS delivery man.

"Why do you drink all this coffee? You seriously can't be tired anymore," she grumped, pushing a strand of scrupulously flat-ironed blonde hair out of her face and handing him the half-and-half, which he took without comment and unceremoniously dumped into his drink.

"Well," he said, stirring in a large amount of sugar, "I was reading some angry, lost, sexually-frustrated preteen's stories from this fanfiction website, and somehow, in all the depressing stories, coffee was utilized of an anti-depressant." He swirled the plastic spoon around in his mug, looking rather dejected. "It's not working. Stupid kids think they can play doctor."

She had a sarcastic jibe at the tip of her tongue for his obviously poor judgment for advice sources and lame taste in text, but decided against it. She wanted a tip, dammit, and she didn't pour this guy five cups of coffee for nothing. Instead, she asked, "Why are you depressed?"

"Because," Haar looked dreamily into his coffee, "There's a really gorgeous lady I deliver mail to, but I don't even know her name! I see her every afternoon at four-twenty for the last two years with the exception of Saturday and Sunday, because I don't work Saturdays and there's no post Sunday, and she's always watering her potted plants in the windowsill. Her windows are always open, those baby blue curtains blowing in the breeze, and she's watering the pretty yellow and red flowers. She always smiles, waves, and says hello. And every time I see her, I just want to get my hands on her awesome rack and rip off her clothes and get on top of her and-"

"You should stop fantasizing," Calill interrupted. "That guy behind you is going to be in pain for a while if you keep continuing, if you know what I mean." She pointed a plastic fork at the man in the booth to add emphasis, who, in turn, looked sheepishly over at the two and itched his crotch.

"Name's Gatrie," he said, picking up his paper and coffee and sidling up to the bar to join them. He was a large, muscular man with broad shoulders and a ladies-man aura about him. That, and he had an assortment of hickies on his neck that weren't quite hidden by his collar. "I think I may be able to help you here. I know the strange ways of women...I work with them for a living, see."

"Uh-huh," said Calill, with a rather unimpressed expression. "Gatrie, huh? I've heard of that name before. You that proprietor of the strip club at the edge of town?" She leaned on the counter with her elbows, jabbing the plastic fork accusingly.

"Yep!" Gatrie puffed out his chest proudly. "Strip club is a bit of a harsh term, though. I would prefer to call it the...uh...Women's Appreciation Club."

Calill rolled her eyes. "Oh, God help us all."

Gatrie ignored the comment and turned to Haar, patting his arm with a massive hand in what he thought was a rather fatherly fashion. "I know everything there is to know about women! And the first rule of thumb is that all women like to be flattered-just go up to her and tell her she has great breasts and she'll jump you, yessir, she will." He flashed his cheeky grin, tapping his newspaper smartly against his hands and then taking a generous swig of coffee. "Two years? Son, you know how much great sex you just missed out on? Well, I suppose that means you'll just have to make up for it," he gave a thoroughly disturbing wink here, "But still, you need to jump the first hurdle! Just lather her up real good and proper first."

"What the hell kind of advice was that?" a petite brunette joined the counter, handing her thermos to Calill. A cute kid, she decided, no older than twenty, and from her smart dress, Calill deduced that she was probably off to some sort of internship. "Gingerbread Steamer, extra cinnamon, please."

"Coming right up," Calill responded, a smile quirked at her lips at Gatrie's affronted face.

Haar gave a agonized moan and slumped to the counter. "It wouldn't be so difficult, but there's another man!" he wailed, buried in his arms. "I've seen him four times this past week, bringing her food! He's everything any woman would ever want in a man! He's tall, handsome, and attractive, and I mean this all in the least homosexual way possible!"

Calill's ears perked-she was always into some juicy drama, after all-and half-turned from the making of a Gingerbread Steamer with extra cinnamon. The brunette crinkled her nose and opened her mouth to say something, but then decided to fish for her wallet instead.

"Three Gold," said Calill to the girl, setting down the hot drink. "Would you like biscotti today? Muffins?"

"Yeah, chocolate biscotti, thanks," she said, snapping the clasp shut. Coins clinked on the counter, and they turned the two women turned their attention back to the conversation.

"But there's more," continued Haar, still bemoaning his unrequited love, "he can cook. And she's obviously into the Jonas Brothers meets I-Just-Rolled-Out-Of-Bed-After-Having-Hot-Sex-And-I-Don't-Give-A-Flying-Fudge-Nugget-What-I-Wear look, I mean, he's got these baggy sweatpants but blue hair, so I-"

"Blue hair?" the brunette asked, looking mildly amused. "And baggy sweats? Tell me, does your Princess have flowing red hair, an unnatural talent for gardening, and reside in a castle of aging yellow paint, ugly green shutters, and ratty blue curtains?"

Calill decided right then and there that this girl was awesome.

Haar looked at her, stunned. "You know the goddess of whom I speak?"

"Yeah," she said. "If by 'Goddess' you mean my best friend Jill. My name's Mist. And that, uh...other man...you speak of? That's my brother, Ike. And he's not her boyfriend, because his wife would disembowel him and then make haggis out of his innards. He was just delivering food to her as a favor from me, seeing as her stove is broken, and I was too busy to go over there myself. And everyone knows that the Jonas Brothers are a bunch of Disney princesses who enjoy buttsex with each other despite wearing those purity rings. It's all a plot to sell sex to little girls with their tight pants and moaning while they sing; so I'd prefer if you don't reference my brother to them. Ike's nothing like them."

"A name befitting a Goddess!" Haar shouted jubilantly, his eye maniacally starry, who apparently had not heard a word after 'Jill'. "It is only right that the most beautiful woman in the world should have the most beautiful name in the world!"

"And she's available," nodded Gatrie, slapping his paper down on the counter. "What are you waiting for, my good man? Go get on top of her!"

Calill rolled her eyes, and Mist groaned. "Oh, God. That's a disaster waiting to happen."

But alas! Too late. Haar, being a man of opportunity (when he was conscious enough to seize the chance), tarried not a moment, charging out the door and clambering awkwardly into his UPS truck, driving off to make his deliveries of the day.

"So, pretty lady," Gatrie grinned, eyeing Calill out of the side of his eyes. "A gorgeous woman with such glorious assets shouldn't waste her talents here at this lonely little shop! How about you put that bountiful bosom up for display at my club, eh?"

"I think the Women Appreciation Club can do without me," said Calill.

"Can't blame me for trying." He turned to Mist, who scowled. "And you!-"

"No."

"But you haven't even heard my pitch yet!" protested Gatrie.

"My ears would bleed if I did, believe me," responded Mist dryly, following Haar's example and retreating out the door, leaving Gatrie to chortle his way out to his red sports car before wedging himself in and heading out to the Women Appreciation Club to appreciate him some women.

Calill looked down on the counter.

There was no tip.

"Dammit."

-000-

"I'll take a large pumpkin spice soy latte, extra strong, go light on the pumpkin spice part, lots of soy, make it extra frothy, and super hot. Make it snappy."

Those, Calill decided, were words spoken from the mouth of Satan himself.

Satan, as it turned out, came in the form of a short, obnoxiously arrogant asshole who looked like he had swallowed a fork. Satan was also quite into fashion, having long (flowing, Calill grudgingly noted) dark hair tied in a low pony, stylish sunglasses, burgundy cashmere sweater over a white collared shirt, tailored pants, and shiny leather shoes, all of it no doubt name-brand. Damn yuppie.

While she custom-made his large, extra strong, super soy-ed, piping hot, frothy, mildly pumpkin spiced soy latte, Satan read the newspaper.

And all was good.

Or at least, until Satan opened his mouth to harass the next patron as he walked through the door, chipper as a beam of sunshine.

"Why the hell are you so happy? It's only noon," snapped the yuppie from Hell.

The cheery grin slid slightly lopsided on sunshine's face. "Good morning, Soren," he said, sweeping red hair out of his eyes. "I'll have a peach-ginger tea over ice, please? Thanks very much."

And those, mused Calill, were words that only God himself could speak.

God was a guy of a sort of frail beauty, a taller, mild-mannered gentleman who smiled a lot and would probably have laugh-lines and crow's feet by the time he was thirty. God was a little less into trendy styles, with a Brad Pitt haircut, black button-up which he folded to his elbows, khakis, and worn no-name dress shoes. God, thought Calill, was pretty damn hot.

"Watching that frail immune system of yours?" Soren (Satan, Calill's mind protested) asked, tapping his fingers against his papers. "Pomegranate-Acai would have been a better choice."

God smiled. "Oh, no," he said cheerfully. "Just enjoying a wonderful day with my favorite tea." Then, God turned his dazzling smile to Calill and said brightly, "Any chance I could buy a cranberry muffin, too? Wait, make that two; Soren looks likes he needs a bit of happiness in his life, and I find muffins to be simply delightful."

"You are a customer sent from Heaven, I'm sure!" beamed Calill, passing Soren his snappily-made large pumpkin spice, extra strong, light on spice, super soy, frothy, piping hot soy latte, and plating two cranberry muffins before turning to prepare God's peach-ginger tea.

"Oh, no," said God modestly. "Sent from the church across the street, perhaps, but not from Heaven."

"Church?" asked Calill. "But it's Thursday morning!"

"Didn't you know? Saint Rhys here," interjected Soren sarcastically, "is their most devout follower. He prays on Sunday, sings on Monday, hosts potluck suppers on Tuesdays, molests small boys on Wednesday, attends Church-y seminars on Thursday, sings again on Friday, and goes to a knitting club on Saturday."

"The knitting club is quite fun, actually," responded Rhys, doing very well at keeping his end of the conversation conversational. "We learn new patterns each week. Just last weekend, I learned to make a beautiful throw-rug! Why, just imagine the possibilities! Besides, the talk is what's the most interesting. When we're not learning new patterns, we're discussing our relationship with our Heavenly Father and keeping each other on track to make our lives the best that it can be. You-"

"Should come sometime," finished Soren, poking the muffin suspiciously with a plastic fork. "No, thanks." He set some coins on the counter, folded his paper, and stalked through the door, slamming the tinkling door shut. In the distance, Satan went back to work in his slick Mercedes.

Calill pursed her lips. "Not too friendly." She handed Rhys the tea.

"No," shrugged Rhys, pulling out his wallet and counting out the money. "He's just different. You'd have to know him to understand his humor."

Calill resumed mixing a batch of coffee cake after counting his change. "I suppose so," she sighed.

"Either way," said Rhys, poking a straw through the lid and bobbing it around amidst the icy drink, "I have to head back to Church. Have to prepare for the seminar tonight."

With one more sunshiny smile, God put a handful of coins in the tip jar and had retreated back to his holy house across the street, and all was quiet and good.

"Seminar?" wondered Calill a few moments later when she had set the cake to bake, tapping her chin and mumbling to herself. "On Thursday? Just as Soren said. So does that mean...on Wednesdays..."

-000-

Routine was something Calill could never, ever get used to.

Thus, it fascinated her when a customer came invariably to the shop every afternoon at four, strolled up to the counter to order what he had always ordered, and sat in the furthest corner of the shop and read Newsweek or Time Magazine until five.

And, looking at the black-and-white clock hanging above the trashcan, he would be arriving any minute now. But in the meanwhile, she would have to concentrate on feeding the ravenous little monster seated at the counter who was determined to clear out all the pastries in the display window.

"Can I have some more scones?" the bottomless pit asked, wiping her mouth wth a napkin and pointing at the last lonely pastry in the display.

"You've eaten the whole batch." Calill plated the scone and handed it across the counter. "And all my cookies, brownies, pies, and muffins. You plan on eating my cakes too," she eyed the Nurse ID-tag that hung around her neck, "Ilyana?"

And, just as Calill had predicted, promptly at four, the man with an obsession for routine and large caramel macchiatos glided through the door, the latest copy of Newsweek in his hands.

Meanwhile, Ilyana speared the scone with her fork and shoveled it into her mouth. And there, Calill sighed, was the last of the courageous scone tribe. "I'm starving," she said in a timid voice once she had devoured the piece. "Can I have some of that cake? It looks delicious."

"Why not," Calill handed over a generous slice of the coffee cake she had made a few hours earlier. "You know," she said after a few seconds after Ilyana practically inhaled the slice, "I don't know if you're a coffee-shop angel sent from heaven or a barista's nightmare. Wait," she narrowed her eyes as the thin girl thrust out her plate for another piece, "You do have enough money to pay for all of this, right?"

"What?" she looked up from her plate and the fork clattered dramatically. "You mean this doesn't come with my drink?"

"You ordered a small ice-water," Calill reminded her, completely annoyed. "That's free. The food is not. The prices are listed on the board above my head."

"Oh...," she glared at the board accusingly and then rummaged in her beaded bag for her wallet. Her face fell. "I only have six Gold and one Silver," she said sadly. "Can I have another piece of cake?"

"You've eaten seventy-two Gold worth of food," said Calill. "I'll knock off the change. If you want another piece, that's sixty-eight, minus your six and discounting the Silver, that you owe me."

"But I'm so hungry..," moaned Ilyana. Then, coyly, she turned to Mr. Newsweek. "If it isn't Zihark!"

"Here, give her the rest of the cake," said Zihark on cue, who had patiently waited at the coffee bean shelf reading the nutritional value of Brazilian beans, pulled out a checkbook. "I'll get her tab. I'll have a large caramel macchiato, please."

Calill sighed and served the remaining cake before turning around to prepare the coffee. "That's awfully nice of you to cover her tab," she said, adding caramel syrup to the drink, wearily eyeing Ilyana as she shoved two slices at once into her face. "Are you really sure you want to pay for all that food, though?"

"Sure," he said casually. "She's my neighbor's daughter, and I owe him a pretty nice debt from poker night last weekend. This ought to settle the score."

Ilyana swallowed the last slice of cake and licked her fingers. "Thanks, Zihark. Gosh, I was starving-I hadn't eaten in eight hours!" She peered hopefully at the display window, hoping more goodies had magically materialized to satisfy her endless hunger. Saddened by the prospect that there was no more food to be had, she gloomily tromped out of the cozy little shop.

He waved it aside, unaware that she had gone, immersed in caramel macchiato and Newsweek. "Can you believe this?" he shoved an article in Calill's face, so much so that she had to look cross-eyed to read the title. "The stock market has taken another hit. I thought that if I voted differently things would change. But things are only getting worse, dammit!"

"Well, of course," said Calill, brushing the magazine aside and pulling out several jars of pie filling. "Did you think who you voted for was God or something?"

"He certainly seemed too good to be true at first," huffed Zihark, ruffling the pages in indignation. "But he's looking more like the Anti-Christ now!"

"His true colors," she said dully, putting together the dry ingredients for pie crust. "At last the scoundrel shows himself."

"Yeah!" scowled Zihark, nodding fiercely. "That's right."

Then, he fell silent, and for a few moments, only the sound of pie dough being mixed could be heard.

"You don't know much about politics, do you?" asked Calill dryly, rolling out dough to fit the pans she had Pam'ed.

Zihark shook his head sadly. "No."

She smiled wryly, dumping cherry filling haphazardly into one pan, blueberry in the next, and apple in the last. "Not very many people can speak intelligently on it, so don't feel too bad."

He sighed into his cup of macchiato. "You'd think I'd have got the hang of it though, after reading Newsweek and Time for the past twelve years."

Calill shrugged and covered the pies with crust and shoved them off into the oven. "Being bad at politics is a good thing," she said after setting the timer. "Around here, you can either piss and moan about everything or advocate socialism. There's not much of a middle ground, and if there is, well then, you don't want to be standing in the middle of the battlefield, right?"

"Well actually," said Zihark, draining his cup and setting it down dejectedly, "politics is more like an orange wedge. You start out in the middle of the straight part, where you're neither conservative or liberal. Then, you migrate toward whichever end you're drawn to, thus the opposite ends of the straight. The peel part, the curve? That's where you get all the psychopathic Communists and Fascists. Instead of a 2-D view of politics, it's more 3-D. The extremists meet together in the end, you see."

"Communism and Fascism are two extremely different views," objected Calill. "I don't see how they could meet in the middle."

"The extremists all share a common hatred for things they don't believe in," elaborated Zihark. "They meet in the middle so they can kill each other."

She pondered a moment. "That kind of makes sense. But that doesn't explain the fact that Communism focuses on equality for all, hand-holding, and helping out lazy bumfucks who should be weeded out of society. Or Fascism, which is all about militarism and nationalism, killing the weak and being a big douche in the eyes of the world."

Zihark sighed sadly. "Can I have another caramel macchiato, to go? I Tivo-ed Nancy Grace and I'm going to go watch it now."

"I'll pray then," said Calill, after she had made and handed him the drink. "That she doesn't suck out your soul while you watch her program and touch her man-parts in awkward ways afterward."

"Hey, I take that offensively," said Zihark, handing over a few coins. "She is a brilliant woman with a passion for telling the truth. People just say bad things about her because she can Chuck Norris their sorry asses."

"Chuck Norris doesn't appreciate being compared to her," Calill said dryly. "But either way, you have fun watching your Nancy Grace and I'll just hope she doesn't masturbate over your cold, lifeless body later tonight."

"You would," laughed Zihark, tipping his fedora and going home to have his soul inappropriately touched by the woMAN on his television screen.

Calill shook her head. "At least he has good taste in coffee."

-000-

It was a half hour to closing, and sitting at the stool nursing a hot chocolate mocha with chocolate shavings and whipped cream was the most extraordinary creature Calill had ever laid eyes on. There was only one flaw on this magnificent specimen, and that was the gold band that glistened around his finger. The exquisite champion of gorgeousness had a magnificently chiseled face and the tortured eyes of a fallen God, and Jesus, those perfectly arched eyebrows...He was like a visual orgasm sitting before her very eyes.

And then, Visual Orgasm #2 sidled into the shop, a demi-god of a man, rippling muscles evident through the thin white fabric of his shirt, taking a stool adjacent to VO #1. He had a brash look to him, dark hair spiked up slightly and capable, calloused hands that would make a woman very, very happy. His penetrating eyes skimmed the menu plastered above Calill's head, saying briefly, "I'll have a medium mint-chocolate frappe, thanks," (to which Calill's heart skipped a beat) before turning to VO #1 and asking, "So, tell me exactly what's going on?"

Of course, thought Calill as she began to create a medium mint-chocolate frappe, it was only natural that the two most gorgeous men on Earth knew each other.

VO #1 looked down at his drink, twiddling the plastic spoon around the cream. "Well," he said finally after he had carefully considered his words, "Elincia and I got into a fight."

VO #2 did not look too surprised. "Ike, you kind of are a remote-control hog, no offense."

"No, Boyd, you don't understand!" cried Ike, anguish boiling under his dark eyes, swimming with tears, as Calill quietly passed the frappe to his muscular friend, "she's withholding sex! We haven't done it in four days!" Then, he paused. "How do you know that's what we got into a fight about?"

Boyd diverted his eyes, shuffling for his wallet instead. "Mist," he mumbled at last, when he realized after he paid for the drink that he could no longer stall for a decent answer. "She told me last night."

"She was with you last night?" Ike's eyes practically bulged out of his head. "She told me she was going to hang out with Jill! What did you do? Jesus, you didn't...did you?"

"No!" said Boyd vehemently. "We just sat on the couch and ate ice cream, that's all!"

"Are you sure?"

"Well, we did watch re-runs of CSI."

"Jesus Christ, that's disgusting."

"What's disgusting is being a remote hog. Remote hogs have no friends. People hate you."

"Hey!" said Ike, pointing his spoon accusingly. "Would you prefer to watch ESPN or another episode of Desperate Housewives?"

"Depends on if I'm getting laid afterward," said Boyd thoughtfully. "Not by Mist, of course," he added hastily.

Ike was quiet a moment, watching Calill wipe down the counters. She could have died, really, having two pairs of gorgeous eyes on her, so she tried to ramp up the sexy of counter wiping to the best of her ability, but to no avail. Instead, she looked up and saw two thoroughly confused men staring back. Quickly, she retreated back to the syrup station and pretended to be preoccupied with alphabetizing them.

"You shouldn't be such a control hog, anyway," said Boyd offhandedly, breaking the awkward silence. "It gets old fast."

"Well you try sitting through an hour of that junk after work," argued Ike. "It's balls."

"Fine," said Boyd, poking his straw around in his empty cup. "Let's get a woman's opinion on this then." He turned to Calill, who was in the process of changing the Open sign to Closed. "What do you think?"

"Relationships are about compromise," responded Calill, closing the blinds. "You get one or the other. Not both."

"I think I might die if I saw another episode of Housewives," said Ike piteously, standing up to leave. "If I do die," he looked to Boyd and Calill with pleading, desperate eyes. "Will you come to my funeral? Make sure my epitaph reads 'Here lies Ike, smothered by cheese and will be sorely missed'?"

"Yes, yes," said Calill, shooing the two out. "I'll come. But in the meanwhile, it's fifteen minutes after closing, so you're going to have to leave."

"Sorry," Boyd said to her, and then to Ike: "I'll come and laugh over your dead body."

"You're such a loser."

"Likewise."

Calill shook her head bemusedly as they continued to argue out the door like an angry, old married couple, resting her chin on her hands.

Of course, it was just another day at the coffee-shop.

End