"For the love of God, Donna… I know it's difficult, but please try an' listen to me because I truly, truly cannot fathom any other possible way to say this to you—I do not want any bloody coffee! It is quite possibly the furthest thing from my mind. All I want is to have a moment's peace to just focus and write. That's it. Absolutely nothing else. I have a deadline hurtling towards me like a bloody asteroid hurtling towards Earth. A deadline, might I add, that your husband so generously imposed upon me!" John Noble griped, doing so with an impressive balance of genuine irritation and the dramatics of a 5-year-old. In fact, if passersby didn't actually stop and observe the scene, they would have sworn that they had just overheard the obnoxious whining of a child to his "five minutes away from tying her own tubes" mother, as opposed to a man on the precipice of 30 and his rapidly nearing her breaking point sister.
Said sister took a deep breath, turning her eyes heavenward in a silent plea for strength and the restraint so as not to beat the living daylights out of the tall toddler, and continued down the walk. "Yes, my husband 'imposed' a deadline on you because my husband is your editor, John! And what just exactly did you expect him to do, huh? This is his job. Just like you, he has people he has to answer to. But unlike you, the people he answers to aren't so lenient. So back off him on that one, yeah? I won't let you paint him as the bad guy in this!"
"Of course, Jack has a job to do. I get that, Donna, I do. Still doesn't address the fact that you pulled me away from my flat midmorning to drag me uptown to some hoity toit—"
"Oh that. Is. It!" The ginger whirled around on her brother, her eyes ablaze as she glared him down. "You button your bloody gob or so help me God, I will button it for you! I mean it, John. It will take literally every single surgeon on the eastern seaboard to fix you if you don't shut it now!"
John looked squarely at his sister for a brief moment before tossing his hands up in exasperation, signaling her to speak. Settling her hands on her hips, Donna glared at him for a solid minute, chewing on her cheek as her thoughts turned over in her mind. Finally, she bent over, her hands still resting on her hips, and released a harsh exhalation. Her frustration was at its pinnacle, and she was so close to losing her temper completely. There was only so much ridiculousness a woman could stand, and John was going for the gold. Taking another breath, Donna rose back up and met her brother's frustrated expression with a penetrating fiery glare.
"Now, you listen to me, John Westley…"
John's expression soured immediately at the use of his middle name. Not only was he not a fan of its origin, but it typically made an appearance when he was in some form of familial trouble, and he resented its use immediately. He suddenly felt reduced to a 5-year-old; it was not a pleasant sensation.
"You have done things your way for almost two months, and do you know what you have to show for it? Not one bloody thing!" She briefly narrowed her eyes at him before continuing. "Oh, no, no, no… No, I take that back. You've actually 'accomplished' several things in that time," Donna mocked, unable to control the sarcasm before it rolled off her tongue. "Let's see… you bought an inversion table because you prattled on about some nonsense of needing to 'see things from a different perspective.' Two days later, Jack found you upside down, halfway passed out, with your face bloody near the color of that Willy Wonka girl…"
"Violet," he muttered, interjecting needlessly.
She slitted her eyes as she passed over his comment and continued, "Then you decided to fool around and play machinist. You took apart literally every appliance in your flat. Insisted you could put them back together because you bought some 'revolutionary' tool called a Sonic Screwdriver. The name alone shoulda clued you in, not to mention you bought the bloody stupid thing off Etsy. Lord only knows how much it cost you to replace everything."
That tidbit of memory caused John to visibly wince. Donna was right. He'd literally taken apart every appliance in his home, tinkering with them using what turned out to be nothing more than a cheap, alien-looking screwdriver with a tiny, odd-shaped lightbulb on the end. Replacing it all had indeed carried an unexpectedly hefty price tag.
"In my defense," John started only to be immediately halted.
"Did you seriously just use those words?" Donna questioned, her eyebrow arched precariously high. "Every appliance, John. Every. Single. One. No logical defense for that one. None at all."
John huffed, rolling his eyes, increasingly irritated with his little sister.
Is this rollcall absolutely necessary?
"And the cherry on top of the ridiculously large crap sundae is that you decided to go all Guy Fieri and gave me food poisoning with your little 'inspirational' cooking escapade. Not to mention, I spent so much time retching my guts out that half of my staff thought I was up the duff! I came home one day to find our foyer lined with baby gifts and my husband, bless him, surrounded on the floor, practically catatonic, with a stuffed penguin in one hand and a What to Expect When You're Expecting in the other. It took me a half hour and a couple good slaps to get the poor man to snap out of it!"
"Alright, now in my defense," John quickly started again, "you have never had any sort of reaction to mushrooms in the past. In fact, you love them. How was I to know that you would end up with your head in the bowl?"
"Because you got them from your hemp-wearing, dreadlocked whack-a-doo neighbor."
"C'mon, Donna. Sig isn't that bad. Granted, he's a bit eccentric," John defended, "but h-…"
"Eccentric? John… the man recycles his own urine," she countered, not inclined in the slightest to jump on the 'Sig's Not So Bad' bandwagon. "His family is filthy rich, got a trust fund to set him for life, and the man recycles his urine. I wouldn't put it past him to recycle other things to fertilize his hippie-dippy garden. So next time you decide to play chef, just use a bloody Whole Foods."
A snarky, irritable reply was just begging to fly out of his mouth, and John was sorely tempted to let it. Oh, was he ever tempted! However, thankfully, the rational, adult portion of his brain shoved the retort back down, and finally allowed his sister's words an opportunity to sink in. As as they did, John realized that despite all the protests and rebuttals he had volleyed at her (and everyone else, for that matter), they were all just poor attempts to justify his lack of productivity and progress.
The truth was that he had absolutely nothing to show for in all that time. He had spent months trying to come up with something, anything. Every day, John would boot up his computer only to stare at a white, blank screen with the cursor in the corner, practically convinced it was gleefully mocking him with each blink. Nothing was coming to mind. No whisper of inspiration, no philosophical concept, and to be entirely honest, no motivation. Words had never been a problem for John Noble. The man could ramble like a coked-out Gen Z'er with a podcast. A "never-ending gob" as his uncle…and his aunt…and his sister…and his brother-in-law…and about a fourth of the people who knew him would say. It wasn't as if he didn't love his life; he did and was immensely grateful for all that had come his way. He had so much—a thriving career, a fantastic flat in a city he loved, and a family he wouldn't give up for this world or the next. And it wasn't as if he wasn't passionate about his work, his writing. So, the issue was… It was… Well, John had no bloody idea what it was. No matter the amount of time he dedicated to figuring it out, he had absolutely no idea what to make of his current situation. His muse had officially done a runner, and there was no indication that she desired to return home. It was incredibly maddening, and the longer he stood there, mulling over the morning's relentless back and forth with his sister, the more the emotions he'd battled heated, finally reaching the boiling point.
"Fine!" he barked, scrubbing his face with his hands, and then throwing them up in annoyed defeat. "You win! Are you happy now? You got your way, like you do so many times. But before you do your victory march, do you mind enlightening me on just how exactly going to get a coffee is supposed to help me—other than finally getting you off my bloody back for five minutes?"
Donna's head jerked back, shocked by the heat of his words. They both had tempers, yes, but that response…well, that wasn't her brother's norm. The man she had been verbally sparring with just moments ago was not the one who had just snapped at her. And that, well that was the whole reason for dragging him out of his flat that morning. The family, Donna especially, had watched as John's whole demeanor began to alter. It wasn't any one thing, that would be so simple to pinpoint. And it wasn't something significant or monumental, nothing that made one stop suddenly in their tracks and take notice. However, it was so many little things that when summed up made evident that whatever John was going through, whether conscious of it or not, was changing him, and not necessarily for the better.
Understand, Donna was not in any way trying to imply that a cup of coffee, or any other drink for that matter, was going to right John. She could be a bit ridiculous every now and then, but she wasn't off her rocker. No, it wasn't about getting a silly cup of coffee. It was her attempt to get her brother out of his head, to pull him out of whatever was trying to consume him. In truth, it was her grasping at straws. After all, if John appeared to be unaware and she had no idea the source, how could Donna expect to have the exact right solution? All she wanted to do was to help her brother, to give him an escape, perhaps even some peace. And ridiculous or not, she wanted to take him to the spot that had provided her an unexpected amount of peace at a time when she herself had been so completely overwhelmed.
A couple of years had passed, but Donna would always remember that day so well. She had been particularly incensed that day, having had a rather fiery exchange with her husband that morning. After their call, she could feel that her anger had permeated the air of their new home, and she suddenly felt stifled. Everything was closing in on her, and the longer she stayed, the more her foul mood intensified She had left the house in a flurry barely remembering to turn the lock. She had no direction in mind; she merely descended the few steps and randomly turned to walk. And she just kept walking. Walking and thinking. Which then led to a more aggressive form of walking and fuming. And then that finally led to her paying absolutely no mind to what was in front of her—or rather who was in front of her. By the time Donna realized just what was happening, it was too late, and she'd plowed directly into a young blonde positioning a Specials Board near the path.
She felt the impact before realizing what had actually happened. It was soft. Solid, but soft. Blinking rapidly, the anger haze that had just seconds ago blinded her dissipated, and Donna suddenly had her surroundings come into focus. Clear vision immediately caused her to be mortified by what she'd done. There on the ground a few feet in front of her was a young blonde woman on her backside, a chalkboard sign haphazardly beside her.
"What in th-…" the blonde trailed off, looking around her, clearly dazed by the sudden takedown.
"O-Oh, oh my god!" Donna gasped, springing into action and helping the young woman to her feet. "Oh my god, I'm so, so, so sorry! I-I, I didn't se-…I mean I wasn't paying attention. I mean, of course, I wasn't paying attention, stupid me. A-a-nd…God, I'm such a bloody moron! I di-…"
As the blonde began dusting herself off, she lifted her head, and Donna could see her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparked wildly with irritation. Donna knew she was about to be royally told-off, and fully aware she deserved it. Accident or not, she'd just mowed down a woman in broad daylight. A tongue lashing would honestly be the best of potential outcomes. But, as their eyes met and Donna braced herself, she saw that spark in the woman's eyes flicker out and was instead replaced with furrowed brows and an inquisitive stare. Whiskey eyes flitted back and forth, making a quick but thorough study. Whatever the young woman saw caused her to change course, and she took a deep breath, briefly shaking her head.
"Things happen," she dismissed with a shrug. "I'm still breathing. Granted, I'm sore an' more than likely gonna have a massive bruise on my bum, but all things considered, no big deal."
"Well," Donna sighed in relief, "I'm glad you're not too hurt. Still I-…"
"Are you okay?"
That unexpected question knocked Donna for six, and she stared at the blonde, her eyes widened in bafflement.
"M-me? You want to know if I'm alright?"
"Yeah," she affirmed, a soft smile gracing her lips. "S'obvious you've got something on your mind. Unless assaulting strangers is a typical Tuesday for you."
Donna softly snorted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Nah, this was a one off. I normally save the mindless assaults for Mondays."
"Well, naturally," the blonde chuckled. "Gotta start the week off right."
"See? You get it."
The soft laughter between the two faded, leaving a bit of leeway for awkwardness to seep into the atmosphere, at least for Donna's part.
"So… are you? Alright?"
Donna's eyes darted to meet the young woman's; her brows furrowed.
"You're quite persistent, aren't you?"
"Eh," the blonde shrugged, grinning, "it's genetic. Temper, too, but y'really gotta push me to see it. But don't think I haven't noticed that you've done everything 'cept answer my question."
There was a prolonged pause as Donna mulled over the idea. It was tempting to have an objective sounding board; however, she'd only known the young woman all of 10 minutes. And really, it was a bit presumpt-…
"Hey, now… I'm just giving ya a hard time," she assured, her grin weakening a bit with worry. "Your business is your business. I know how to mind mine. But…how 'bout this," the blonde changed gears, "you're clearly having an incredibly bad day, that much is obvious. So…why don't ya come inside, have somethin' to drink. My treat."
Quirking an eyebrow, Donna gave a slight smile. "Well, I'm not daft enough to turn down that offer."
"Name's Rose, by the way"
"Donna."
The woman grinned, opening the door, and motioning for Donna to go ahead of her. Doing so, Donna took in the space now surrounding her, finding it beautifully eclectic. Quickly rattling off her choice of drink, Donna settled into a chair to wait. The shop was rather empty, only a few patrons scattered about the place engrossed in whatever, leaving mostly silence in the air. Unfortunately, the lack of noise allowed the memories of the morning's quarrel to be recalled to mind. As they did, Donna realized that the events of the morning, the heated interaction with her husband had affected her far more than she'd originally credited. The emotional aftermath came on her full force, and immediately she could feel the hot sting of tears trying to force themselves free. Desperate to distract herself from the sudden turn of her manner, Donna tried to study the room, attempting to take in any and every detail, but it was of no use. Her gaze inevitably drifted downward to the table, and she began to trace her fingers across its mosaic surface.
The sudden appearance of a ceramic cup and glass plate caused her gaze to flicker up.
"Here," Rose smiled warmly down at her, "hot and ready. And I thought you might wanna try a pastry. My treat too."
Though genuinely thankfully, Donna could only muster up a tight smile as she took the cup in hand. "Thanks. Looks lovely."
Silently Rose stood, her eyes roving thoughtfully over the Donna's face, before faintly nodding her head in acknowledgement.
"Of course. An' if you need or want anythin' else, just lemme know."
The young woman turned around and headed back towards the kitchen. She'd barely taken ten steps before the redhead's voice halted her.
"Y-…You ever wonder if…if maybe…," Donna started brokenly, her cup in one hand and her gaze still focused on the table her fingers continued to roam over. "Have you ever wondered if maybe you're just part of the problem? That…that you're just too much, and so…when you try to include them and then ask for something o-o-or get them to just bloody communicate, it's your bloody fault it all blows up? I mean, I just wanted him to be a part of things, but it's like he just clams up and wants to just leave it to me. Even though we're supposed to be a team! So, you try, I mean really and truly try, but it just seems to all get twisted, and then you spend over a bloody hour bickering, yelling and then nothing. Absolutely nothing!"
Rose cocked her head, her lips pursing ever so briefly. She righted herself and took the few steps back towards the troubled, rambling woman. She gestured to the empty chair, mutely asking for permission to join her, which Donna gave with the faintest of nods.
"I… Well, that was a lot of words, an' to be honest, I'm not sure I fully get what you're asking. Actually, I'm not sure if you were really askin' me anything. Were ya?"
Donna shook her head, sniffling. She could feel hot tears prickling behind her eyes, was doing her level best to hold it all together.
"So…," Rose reached across and gently put her hand over Donna's, stopping her harried traveling fingers. "How about you talk, and I listen. An' if you decide y'want me to chime in, then I will."
She finally made direct eye contact with the young blonde, and the immense warmth and concern she saw there caused the tears Donna had been fighting to break loose and trail freely down her cheeks.
Deciding to take her up on her offer to unburden herself, Donna took a deep, steadying breath.
"It started this morning…"
That was how Donna found herself spending the next three hours pouring her heart out to the kindhearted stranger. As she related the events that had transpired, she felt so at ease as the young blonde listened to her. And even though she was indeed a stranger, Donna found herself consulting her perspective and actually appreciating it. At the end of it all, Donna was as peace, the weight of the day lifted off her shoulders, and clear minded to mend things with her husband.
She was grateful for the little haven she had discovered, and visited it frequently, and over time, developed a friendship with Rose and the other woman who owned it. The shop was truly a treasure. It was that fact which caused Donna to drag her loveable yet somewhat infuriating brother away from his flat and out of his head.
Taking a slow, silent breath, Donna met her brother's hard gaze, softening her eyes as she did so.
"John," she started softly, calmly. "I don't often ask you for things, but I am asking you this: will you please, just for once, stop questioning everything and just listen to me? Just trust me? Please."
John was taken aback by her words. He could count on one hand the number of times Donna genuinely implored like she just had. Something in her tone quelled his anger, somewhat humbling him. Relaxing, he took a breath and nodded his assent, following his sister another block. Offering her a soft smile, John opened the door and followed her into The Cuppa.
