Title: Dancing Without The Rain

Rating: PG-13

Summary: All she ever wanted was to be left alone. All he ever wanted was not to be with someone who would reject him. Fate ignored their unsubtle requests, and together, they may be in for more then they expected.

Categories Romance/Humour

Disclaimer: I'm shameless. I don't own Neal OR Kel. I stole them. Shhh! Not so loud. Their rightful owners, Tamora Pierce and her Publishers, aren't even looking for them. I substituted some cheap clones for the real things - I'm very cunning.

A/N: I'm DONE! Told you this chappie would take longer! But it is better. I have no beta, so you have to take me as I am. My regular Beta is kind busy with other things pointed look at SA and Altar of Light? Let's just say the guy wouldn't/couldn't delete a comma if it shot him an insult that beat up his mother and involved him doing very questionable things with a sheep…Yes, why I love the guy is a mystery. And how the guy puts up with me is a mystery too.

Chapter Three

Bad Service in Starbucks and a Showdown

Kel woke up to the vaguely annoying beeping that was her alarm clock. Raising an eyelid with an effort that would have left most weight lifters impressed, her left hand fumbled around before pressing the beeping alarm cock to an eyeball.

5:55 it read, its bright red numbers mocking her. Placing the alarm clock back on the bedside table and switched it off. Pulling herself out of bed, Kel made her bed and then tottered over to the bathroom. She needed a shower.

Kel's bathroom was very much wooden. Wooden floors, wooden paneling, heck, the toilet seat was wooden. Her bathtub/shower unit was one of those 'sink into the floor types' which she hated. Despite being aesthetically pleasing, it was very hard to take a bath without splashing water everywhere.

Turning on the hot tap for the shower, Kel removed her clothing and stepped into the gushing stream of hot water, shivering slightly as it hit her cool skin. Squeezing some soap into her palm, Kel rubbed her hands together and began to wash. Thinking about what the day might bring.

Neal woke up, and then wished he hadn't.

Envision for a moment, if you will, a really bad head ache; you know the type. The ones where you think that maybe some Norse God mistook your head for an anvil, and when he discovered you weren't one, decided to slowly melt your brains out in anger. You always wake up during the brain melting bit. Got that? Good. Now at the same time, feel violently ill.

Congratulations! You now have Neal Queenscove's hangover. Groaning in agony, Neal rolled over, and then decided then and there that maybe moving, breathing, and being alive right now was a very bad idea.

Footsteps that threatened to split his skull in two approached. Then a voice.

"Hey, Queenscove, you alive?" it was Cleon.

"Jesus man, don't walk so loud!"

A chuckle, and then Cleon opened his mouth to speak again, "Fine, I was just leaving. Go back to sleep."

"No, no, I'm up."

"In that case my hangover remedy is in the fridge."

"Cheers,"

When Cleon left, Neal checked the time.

6:11

Crawling out of bed, Neal staggered over to the fridge, and fumbled with the handle before reaching in and pulling out a glass. Neal stared at the fluorescent red liquid, and then slung it down. Though in moments of boredom, Neal had often spared a thought for Cleon's magical hangover cure, he never wanted to know what went inside that glass.

It looked, smelt, and tasted a lot like cat piss, but combined with an aspirin, it worked wonders. Cleon said he got it from some 'Kel' girl. Either way, it was a damn good hangover cure. Massaging his skull, Neal glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall.

Fifteen minuets, a broken glass, a spilt hangover cure, and much, much, much, cursing later; Neal was out the front door.

Sitting in a local Starbucks, Neal nipped at his latté. He ordinarily would have gone to his usual café, a nice out of the way place near his office, but he had to go to some 'school board' meeting near here. He often went establishments like his regular café, under the basis that the service, food, and general everything of the place was better. And the stubborn knowledge that 'They were here first' and that just because a snazzy processed company showed up was no reason to stop their business.

"Can I get one large cup of coffee please?" came a voice. It was a nice voice. But it had also made a big mistake.

"What type?"

"Regular." Yep, a very big mistake.

"Yeah miss, but like, yuh know, what type? Yeah." It was the dweebish, mind numbingly stupid alto that could only be accomplished by a teenage boy, who thought he was all that.

"Um…a regular cup of coffee?" came the voice again. Nice voice, and definitely female.

"Yeah, but what type yuh know? Latté, cappuccino, espresso, what?"

There was a deep breath, "Listen," there was a pause, "…Horis, I just want a very large cup of coffee, with lots of milk and one sugar. Okay? A cup of coffee, just like the one which millions of people drink everyday." The voice had a soft, soothing timbre to it, even when it was tensed in frustration. It was a very nice voice.

Another pause, "So…you want an Americano?"

Neal chose this moment to intervene, and save the bearer of the nice voice having to beat her head on the counter in aggravation.

"Kid, just give the lady a freaken' Americano, it may not be exactly what she wants, but it'll at least remove you from her presence."

Apparently, some sort of survival gene kicked in, because Horis then scampered off to do Neal's bidding.

"Thanks…whoever you are, you know, do you always make a habit of helping out complete strangers?"

Turning to answer something like 'Gee, I don't know, are you always this rude to people who help you?' he froze. His first sight was of her black boots. Nice, sturdy boots, with a very sturdy heel. Then he saw jeans. Jeans which, he noticed were covering legs that seemed to go on for days, and a simple shirt, covered by a suede jacket.

She had short brown hair; poker straight that only barely went passed her jaw line. A heart shaped face with a dainty nose and soft mouth. Dragging his gaze up to her eyes he then just looked at her.

Something in his hormonal driven gaze however, must have conveyed his original message, because she then smiled in a faintly embarrassed way.

"Sorry, you were only helping."

Collecting her order from Horis, the woman paid her fee (no tip whatsoever after a service like that!) and strolled out of the building.

Only then did his brain start functioning enough to yell at him for not even asking her name.

Class 49 did not know what to expect when they entered their classroom that day. Their teacher was apparently a woman, though they did not know her name. How long would she last?

When they got there however, they were in for a big surprise.

She sat on the desk.

The teachers that the class was used to never sat on desks. In fact, they never wore jeans before, or boots; come to think of that. And all their female teachers were middle-aged women. And teachers, as a rule, never wore sued jackets.

They were entering uncharted territory, and they didn't like it. The class twittered themselves into silence, as their new teacher just sat on the desk and waited for them to finish. All the while her face was like a stone slate, blank and impassive. They waited in silence for a full minute before she began to speak.

"Good morning, my name is Ms. Mindelan. As I am sure you have been informed, I am your teacher for Maths, English, and Homeroom." Ms. Mindelan looked at the class for a second, and then she pulled out a booklet, opened it up, and began to- Roll call?

As far as the class could recall, nobody had done a register, except when they were in Primary school. And even then it had died out after a while. Oh well, they were a small class, only about 20 of them.

When she gets down to the name Beth King, however, the voice of Queen Bee Rita Anderson seemed to break out of the spell.

"What," she said, "is the point of this?"

Ms. Mindelan raised a delicate eyebrow, but made no move to stop her.

"Yeah!" chimed two girls sitting next to her.

Her face still blank, Ms. Mindelan said "You are Rita Anderson correct?" she said, jabbing her pen in Rita's general direction.

"Yeah," she replied hautily, snapping her gum in the process, "so?"

But the teacher continued as if she hadn't heard, "And you two girls are Greta Armstrong and Arita Brightman."

"Its Grita," snapped Greta, chewing her gum loudly.

"Pardon?" another raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, like Rita only with a 'G' you know?" said Arita, blowing a big bubble like it settled the matter.

Ms. Mindelan put down her pen, and walked towards the girls. This was it.

Showtime

A/N: this chappie was a bit longer, but I have a bit of writers block running around my head. Fourtunately it is the Chinese New Year holiday, so I have more time to work.

REVIEW! And happy year of the rooster!