Hey! I never knew I will have this kind for a one-shot idea, but here we go! It will include all of us from the Discord group.
It would be a out how everyone are preparing a secret surprise for Luci (aka me) for her birthday.
I still can't believe I'm 18 today!
Have a good day/afternoon/evening/night
IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY OMG
(@starcountesseevee @professor-walnut @nenalata @whatsupwithjinx @katchihe please let me know if I didn't write you out correctly and I'll be sure to fix it!)
"Countess, the balloons are ready, place them up for me please!" Ruby called out, helping Nena put streamers up on the walls.
"On it!" Countess replied, dashing to grab the balloons from Eve.
"Can you believe she's 18 today?" Ruby asked, grinning at Jinx who merely smiled as she placed gifts on the table.
"Hopefully, she didn't suspect anything about the party." Katchi said, placing a golden banner that said "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" in large letters along the doorway.
"Of course she didn't, I made that secret chat as discreetly as I could!" Ruby huffed.
"Sure you did!" Eve laughed.
Jinx rolled her eyes amusedly before heading to the kitchen. "Where's the cake, Rubes?" She asked.
"Fridge, on the second shelf!" Ruby called out. "Go ahead and place it with the macarons and juice!"
Jinx nodded and took the large custom made cake that said "HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY LUCI" in red icing and placed it on the table between rainbow macarons and strawberry juice.
"She's coming!" Countess yelped, quickly tying her last balloon securely.
All the friends immediately dropped what they were doing and gathered excitedly behind the couch. Once the doorknob turned and opened, Luci couldn't help but jump as party poppers popped and confetti flew everywhere around her.
Hey there, @beck-a-leck! I was super glad to see you’d be interested in some good old Hector & Colin interaction. I adore those two and I adored the opportunity to write them. I also lurked on your AO3 to get a better idea for what you might like, and I saw you had an interest in some Hector/Holly stuff, sooooo…I threw in a bit of Potential there as little a treat. Please enjoy! Sorry for the late!
>>Read the story on ao3<< or go under the cut!!
Another splash, and Hector half rose from his lawn chair, ready to dive into the river to save his drowning son.
“I’m all right!” Colin assured him, high-pitched words tumbling over each other. “I just—I just lost the fish again, Pa.”
Hector sank back down, huffing in disapproval to mask his concern. He went back to whittling, as if he hadn’t, for an awful moment, worried another family member had been swept out of his life. “Gotta stand your ground, son.”
“I—I know!” Colin insisted. “These fish keep takin’ my bait. Pa, you reckon they’re hungrier than us?”
These last few seasons, the Westown river had been flowing cleaner and livelier than it had since—since Colin was born. Hector figured the fish were eating better than ever. He shook his head, even though Colin, still plonked by the riverbank, wasn’t looking his way. “You don’t have the bait on right. That’s all.”
“I’m no good at this. I can’t do anythin’ right at all.”
Here he goes.
“Takes time to master a craft,” Hector grunted before the tears crackling in Colin’s voice could spill. “Takes patience.”
Silence from the riverbank. Cicadas rasped in the trees above them, hidden away in thick, dark leaves. Sunlight lasted longer these days, but dinnertime never changed its hour. And Hector’s stomach was starting to gnaw itself at the edges. He tried to remind himself of his own patience, too.
“Pa,” Colin started to say. Hector grunted for him to continue, scraping his whittling knife along the thin strip of wood. “Did you have to…take time with yer whittlin’? For me and my appliqués?”
“Yep,” Hector said. He set aside the finished barbeque skewer and reached for the next strip of wood.
“Does that make whittlin’ those skewers easy now?”
“Yep.”
More silence. Sure didn’t sound like any fishing was getting done over there.
“Won’t have much use for these here skewers if ya don’t catch us somethin’ to skewer,” Hector reminded him, and with a squeak of dismay, Colin rebaited his line.
Their family barbeque was shaping up to be a good one, if Colin ever managed to get his rear in gear and catch them at least one hefty-sized fish. There was nothing like the clean summer taste of roasted carp, his ma’s macaroni salad, and coleslaw from Frank’s last spring cabbage crop. Marco said he might make it down, but Hector knew his hip had been hurting from last night’s rain. Frank had canceled, too, since one of his ewes was due for a new lamb and he was worried, as her last birth had been a rough one.
But the menu was still shaping up right fine, and if their yearly barbeque was just going to be him, his ma, and his son? Well, Hector couldn’t complain at all.
“Having fun out here?”
Hector only just managed to stamp down on his alarm. Good thing, too: this whittling knife had a taste for careless fingers. Holly, the other farmer, stood smiling above him. Apparently, she had decided to make use of the good summer weather: a fishing rod was slung over one shoulder and a fishing pail tight in her grip.
“Holly,” he greeted her. Holly’s smile grew, like he’d shown more enthusiasm than he had. She turned towards the river, shading her eyes against the glaring sunset even under her wide-brimmed hat.
“You’re not out there with him?” she asked, pointing to Colin. Hector huffed and shaved a piece of bark a little too roughly.
“Gotta learn how to do things on his own.”
“Oh, I—I didn’t mean to be rude,” Holly hurried to say. Hector glanced up again, surprised to see an embarrassed flush dusting her cheeks. “He’s a smart kid!”
Huh. Why in the world would she be feeling awkward about that? Hector furrowed his brows, which only served to make Holly fidget more. The hard-cut bark shaving drifted off his corduroy pants and onto his boot, and—oh. In the echoes of his memory, his voice had sounded defensive…
“Didn’t mean to be rude myself,” Hector half-apologized. “Good of you to be concerned for him, farmer.”
“It’s Holly by now, isn’t it?” she smiled again, and when he only grunted, she seemed to take that as an excellent excuse to plop herself on a log next to the freshly-dug firepit. And she didn’t seem to need to say anything more than that. No comments on the weather. No mention of the unused fishing gear in her hands. No chit-chat of nothing.
Instead, they sat in silence. No, not silence: the cicadas still sang their cacophonous melody; the river still gurgled; Colin still sighed every time a splashing fish broke free. Even the rhythmic scraping of his whittling knife on wood felt like it could say more about this fine summer air than Hector could put into words.
“Sorry I ain’t much of a conversationalist,” Hector did finally feel the need to say. Now it was Holly’s turn to jerk from her peaceful perch on the log.
“Sure you are,” she said with enough conviction Hector wanted to believe her. “You just say what needs telling, that’s all.”
True enough, but now Hector had no idea what to say to that. Better to keep an eye on Colin now anyway; he’d finished plenty of skewers for the barbeque he hoped still would happen. Hector set them all down and tucked his whittling knife back in his belt. As his eyes drifted towards his son, tugging on another splashing line like he was saving a dog from a well, movement in Holly’s general vicinity proved her eyes were doing the same.
Just in time, too: with a whoop of triumph, Colin yanked his first prize from the water. “Look, Pa!” he yelled, whirling around with it still on the hook, not in the pail.
“Colin, ya gotta—”
Colin caught sight of Holly’s proud gaze, and of course, all that jubilance fizzled out of him, replaced by that paralyzing timidity that he wasn’t yet managing to break. He fumbled with the line, with the hook, with the bait, and the fish leapt back into the safety of its watery home once more.
“Colin.”
Hector never could figure out how to make his sighs more of an exhale than a growl.
Colin sniffed. “Pa…Pa, Miz…Miz Holly, I…I c-can’t, I didn’t mean no—”
“You did really great, Colin!” Holly interrupted him with so much gentleness the glistening shine left Colin’s huge, miserable eyes. “You almost had it.”
“Yeah, yeah, almost…” Colin repeated. But right away, his lip trembled. “B-but I couldn’t right manage—”
“That just means you’ll get it next time! Come on then. Can I help out?” Holly was already rising from the log almost before Colin started nodding. She picked up her rod and pail again and joined him by the riverbank, telling him in soft tones how he didn’t have the bait on right. Softer and more patiently than Hector had managed. Colin kept nodding along with each of her instructions, wrapping his line finally the correct way and letting her fix his stance. Holly kept him steady, hands on his back just brushing his shoulders. Distant enough Hector doubted Colin could feel it. Close enough she could catch him if he stumbled.
Hector only realized he’d been staring at them far too long when Holly glanced over her shoulder, fixing him with a goofy smile and a merry little wave. And of course his immediate response was to scowl and look away. Right away, he wished he could turn back and make some sort of apologetic acknowledgement back, maybe even a hand raised of his own, but Holly had her back turned to him and was helping Colin slowly, slowly reel what seemed like a promising catch from the far end of the river.
It was safe now to scowl in private, then. Hector busied himself with collecting stones for the firepit so he couldn’t dwell on any lingering embarrassment.
Colin squeaked something incomprehensible from this distance. “Good work, Colin, you almost have it,” Holly’s lilting response drifted over even to where Hector was rustling about for proper-sized rocks. A smile, a true smile twitched on Hector’s lips, when Colin exclaimed something back, no longer timid or ashamed.
Westown had been a far lonelier place before Holly had shown up, especially in this part of town. It wasn’t just Holly who’d moved in, sure: plenty of new faces had rolled on in, too, either on vacation or to set up new shops. Hector tossed the rocks towards the firepit and began arranging them in a neat, orderly circle. A splash, two cheers, and rapid-fire chitchat alerted him of Colin’s very first catch.
Still. For all Westown’s new liveliness—and Tsuyukusa and Lulukoko, so he’d heard—Hector knows this town’s all the better for having Farmer Holly in it now. It just wouldn’t be the same without her, without all these new fresh crops, these new fresh friends from far-flung faces, these new fresh emotions shining on his son’s face Hector had never seen blossom so quickly.
It’d do Colin some good to hear that, he reckoned. Holly too, of course. But because Hector’s mouth was too hungry to be capable of politeness or praise, what came out instead was, “Y’all gonna be done soon, or do we gotta roast up nothin’ but macaroni?”
“Um,” Colin called back, but he cut off his own excuses with another excited cry and began reeling in another fish. Holly stepped back even more, letting Colin claim a fully independent victory over nature. She tucked her hair behind her ear under her hat and smiled so big at Hector he froze in place.
“Probably just one more,” she said while Colin’s defeated foe joined the last in the pail. “He tempted two big old beauties! Plenty of good stuff on them, I’d say.”
Hector grumbled and mumbled and fiddled with the kindling until she went back to watch Colin’s confidence grow. Just within his earshot, the tell-tell screech of the screen door announced his ma’s approach.
“What’s takin’ y’all so long?” she huffed in lieu of greeting. Hector prepared to defend himself and his son, but before he could formulate any sort of response, Holly and Colin’s voices drew attention to them both and away from any of his excuses. “Well, aren’t they babbling like a brook,” Ma mused, crossing her arms over her chest.
Why she wore a cardigan even in this stifling summer heat, Hector would never dare to ask. “Brook’s babbling full of fish,” he said. “Reckon they’ll be done soon.”
Ma cackled. “Promises, promises. Oh, that sweet Colin of yours…”
“He’ll keep it,” Hector said. “Boy’s in good hands. Can see that plain as day.” He stood up, stretched, and headed towards the house to collect the rest of the barbeque spread and plates.
“Hm.” Ma was still watching the two fishing experts perform their duty when Hector returned, juggling far too many bowls, jugs, and tableware than safe. Fortunately, Ma didn’t notice, which meant she couldn’t lecture him. No, all she said was, “This town really feels like some kinda family now, don’t it?” and Hector had lucked out by just finishing setting their cornucopia in a proper, less-dangerous array on the biggest felled log.
Hector, a taciturn man on a good day and a surly one the rest of the time, simply had no reply to that. Fortunately, Ma didn’t seem to need one, because now came the lecture on how much he’d carried himself, why couldn’t he just ask for even the littlest bit of help, she’s not so feeble she can’t take care of her son even a little more…
By the time Ma had worn herself out with her affectionate nagging, Hector had finished lighting the fire and had begun gathering the fresh skewers. “Gotta soak these,” he said needlessly.
Ma sighed. She sounded just like him sometimes. Even Hector could tell. “Then you got all these here dishes out too soon. Flies’ll be at ‘em before you know it.”
“Two of ‘em’ll be done soon, I said,” Hector protested again. Ma, for some strange reason, smiled, soft and warm. She patted his arm without commentary.
“Kids,” she called over to the riverbank duo, “don’t keep your elders waitin’ too long, y’hear? I’m so famished I may just waste away!”
“Gram!” was Colin’s distressed cry, but Holly shushed him and placed his hands back on the reel.
“Don’t go teasin’, Ma.”
“Boy’s gotta learn manners from someone.” Ma patted his arm again with another twinkle in her eye. “Sure didn’t learn ‘em from my son. Didn’t even invite her to dinner, did ya? Terrible manners as ever.”
“Ma!” Hector exclaimed, wincing as he realized he’d sounded exactly like Colin, tone and pitch and all. Ma wheezed another laugh. He cleared his throat as if he could muster up his dignity that way and almost muttered something about where’d she think he learned his manners from, if not his own parent…
But one look Colin’s way, with his own expression and gleeful, beaming smile at Holly while they wrangled the last fish into the bucket made Hector and his deep scowl decide to keep his trap shut. It had served him well in the past, and it’d serve him well again.
“C’mere, you two,” he called over to them instead. They obeyed, Holly reminding Colin not to walk too fast with a bucket of still-wriggling fish. “Sit down,” he said, and brought out a second knife. “Me and Holly, we’re gonna show you how to clean a fish, aren’t we? Family barbeque tradition.” Holly’s eyes widened, lips parting surely to make some sort of protest. Hector mustered all his strength and continued, “Won’t hear nothin’ to the contrary. You’re family, ain’t ya?”
“Yes,” Holly agreed after only a heartbeat’s worth of silence. “Yeah, we are.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Harvest Moon: A New Beginning
Pairing: Allen/Rachel, Neil/Rachel
Rating: T at most
Words: 3289
Neil didn't know when he'd stopped grudgingly seeing her as a friend and had started seeing her as a girl who deserved better.
The thought that maybe she'd be better off with him...that was selfish.
Neil hadn’t expected her to be pretty, but the fact that she was didn’t change his attitude towards her. If anything, it made him a little more impatient with her. What use were good looks in the hard life of a farmer? He wasn’t terribly surprised when she asked him to explain the basics of animal raising, and when he shook her hand goodbye, her smooth fingers betrayed a life of relative leisure.
I give her a week, Neil rolled his eyes to himself as he departed. He only hoped the cow wouldn’t suffer for it.
But Rachel lasted the week. She lasted two weeks. And then, when Rebecca moved in and Rachel suddenly showed an aptitude for carpentry, Neil sat up straight and paid attention. The callus-free hands, she explained to him as she expertly hammered a nail in place, were thanks to heavy-duty gloves protecting them as she breezed her way through high school shop class.
Why Neil had even bothered to show up at her farm, much less strike up a conversation with her, was beyond him, and Rachel seemed pretty confused by it, too. He certainly hadn’t been especially friendly during her short time in Echo Village. But he didn’t think on it too hard and bid her a gruff farewell after a few more topic changes.
He did start to notice when the pathetic little town began to sport benches and streetlights, however. He noticed when Rachel decided to build the kind of annoying newspaper girl’s house right next to his. And he noticed when the salon went up and Allen swaggered into town.
Rachel, noticed, too.
read the rest of it on AO3! or don’t, it’s fine, it’s cool
gf and i went to see guardians of the galaxy vol. 2 and it was fantastic! she even cried a bit towards the end. (she also did my red eyeshadow which i think looks cute af)
M!TabrisxAlistair: They Make a Mean Old-Fashioned Here
Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: M!TabrisxAlistair
Rating: T and relatively SFW if you don’t mind strip clubs
Words: 2773
Read it on AO3!
The Tabrises lived in a nice neighborhood, a cul-de-sac near the entrance of the suburban cluster of two-stories. The development had a generic and pleasant name, Halla Hollow or Andraste’s Grace or something to that effect; it was the sort of generic pleasantness that Alistair immediately forgot after driving past the sign. But the Tabris house itself was nice, again in that generic suburbia way: two stories like all the others, a deep brown roof, a fenced-in backyard sporting a clubhouse and a porch over which Alistair and Mr. Tabris could sit watching over their spawn and pretend to have a meaningful conversation while Adaia and Kieran had their playdate.
There was no reason why they couldn’t have a meaningful conversation. They were both employed by the same cybersecurity company. They were both divorced from beautiful women who didn’t want much to do with them. They were both the fathers of one-a-piece very bright, very energetic child best friends with the other. But at this point in the playdate schedule, sitting on the porch with setting-a-good-example drinks (a juice box for Mr. Tabris, a lemonade for Alistair), they’d exhausted all possible topics of work, women, and fatherhood. It was why these days, Alistair would drop Kieran off, ask Mr. Tabris how he was doing, and drive home until 6 PM, when he would drive back, pick Kieran up, ask Mr. Tabris if Kieran had been good, and drive home yet again.
It was because he didn’t want to impose on Mr. Tabris, Alistair justified.
It was because he didn’t want to rehash the same conversation topics, Alistair reasoned.
It was because he didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good work relationship, Alistair decided.
It definitely wasn’t because he’d seen Mr. Tabris at The Pearl once and wasn’t sure if Mr. Tabris had seen him, Alistair told himself.
Kieran had been a handful in the morning before the bus came to get him. Alistair had made the unforgivable mistake of asking if Adaia was “coming over to play” after school, and apparently, “play” was out and “hang” was in. Kieran had sputtered in embarrassed outrage--”No, dad”--and, heading out the door, had added the parting shot of, “Mom gets it.”
The fact Alistair was divorced didn’t particularly sting anymore. It had been nearly eight years, and Kieran probably couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t spend weekends at his mother’s secluded house in the country. But he was eleven now. Old enough to know that the best way to get under his father’s skin was to imply Alistair wasn’t doing a good job, and certainly old enough to know better than to try.
But Alistair wasn’t much of a disciplinarian. And Kieran also knew that.
Alistair’s car unlocked with a couple cheerful beeps, and he sighed, planting his forehead against the top of his minivan. He wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening with a surly Kieran, Adaia or no Adaia. Kieran hadn’t even answered the original question.
“Should’ve had a mabari instead of a kid,” Alistair mumbled against the metal of the car. “Mabaris are loyal.”
“Would’ve been hard on Morrigan, don’t you think?” an amused voice said from across his car. Alistair’s head shot up, and of course Mr. Tabris was standing there, keys in hand, the door to his sedan open. A half-smile slashed itself across his face. “I shouldn’t make the obvious ‘bitch’ joke, should I?” He was wearing shiny black shades that completely obscured his eyes. Alistair wished he had a pair of shiny black shades.
Half-smile, tailored suit, sleek sedan, shiny black shades...No wonder Kieran preferred going over to the Tabrises. Mr. Tabris looked like a “cool dad” who probably knew to ask Adaia if Kieran was “coming over to hang.”
“Probably not,” Alistair said with another sigh. “She could probably hear you from here. And then she’d swoop down upon us both in vengeance.”
Mr. Tabris swung himself into the black leather of the driver’s seat. “Swooping is bad,” he agreed. “I’m guessing Kieran’s being an annoying eleven-year-old. If you want to grab a drink later, let me know.” He started the car, and it came to life with a smooth purr.
“Yeah, I’ll...do that,” Alistair lied, but Mr. Tabris had already closed the door and was backing out of the spot with a raised hand Alistair’s way. Alistair waved back like Queen Anora, and only when Mr. Tabris’s sleek sedan was purring away from Grey Warden Secure’s massive parking lot did he get into his minivan, managing not to hit his head in the process.
Kieran was at Morrigan’s for the weekend.
It was a long weekend for school--some sort of national holiday Alistair had forgotten about.
Grey Warden Secure was having an office party at some high-end place downtown Alistair had claimed he couldn’t afford.
Mr. Tabris had looked disappointed from the cubicle over when Alistair had laughed his excuses.
That meant Mr. Tabris was going to it.
It was safe.
But Alistair still looked over his shoulder as he shuffled through the dingy parking lot. No sleek sedans. No shiny black shades glinting in the neon pink light. No offers of a drink later, not from Mr. Tabris and not from any of the other folks at work.
The thumping bass and raucous shouts of the audience slammed into Alistair’s chest when he closed the door behind him and nodded at the bouncer. The Pearl was busier than usual, probably due to the long weekend, and the strippers onstage or on-pole were well into their routines. He’d come later than usual, waiting for the office party to start far away in a nicer part of Denerim.
Alistair could no longer recall how he’d found The Pearl. How he’d decided to check it out. It was an uncharacteristic decision, surely. He vaguely remembered some bachelor’s party, but not whose it was. He didn’t usually drink to excess, but maybe he had at one point? It must have been something to that effect, the more he thought about it.
It was quite the night. One that he knew only through flashes of laughing and muscles and spilled drinks and soft skin and faceless new friends and uncertain flutters in his stomach and foggy conversations--
Encouraging howls and catcalls keened through the poorly-lit space. A short and curvy woman--oh, she’s topless--was gyrating on the lap of a round boy surrounded by “FINALLY 18” balloons. The birthday boy’s friends were throwing cash her way, oblivious to the kid’s wide-eyes and frozen hands. Alistair’s face turned red from second-hand embarrassment. He needed a drink.
The bar was farther away than he remembered, squatting low and neon near a black-velvet-curtained-off wall. Alistair blundered through the screaming men mumbling “excuse me”’s and “sorry”’s and “just getting to the bar”’s. It was loud, but for some reason, not so loud that he couldn’t hear the main door open, couldn’t hear the bouncer growl, “ID.”
Alistair peered around his shoulder, bar just within reach, and felt his heart plummet into his stomach with an icy splash when he saw who was getting carded. Mr. Tabris calmly reached into his blazer pocket for his wallet, thumbing through it before handing the bouncer his ID. Alistair, like an idiot, did not think to glance away as Mr. Tabris tugged off his shiny black shades and looked at the bouncer. And then right his way.
Alistair had never had such a frantic need for the bathroom in his life. He barged past the bar, past the black velvet curtain, and barreled into the men’s room like he was about to piss himself. He slammed a stall door closed and stared at the toilet, smiling a watery grin at him in a mocking sort of way.
Why?
Why?
He hadn’t planned for this. Mr. Tabris had seemed eager to go to the work party, or at least, he’d seemed disappointed that Alistair wasn’t going. Didn’t that mean he’d been planning on attending?
Why, why, why was he here?
Alistair gulped several deep breaths, the red mottling his cheeks fading with each inhale. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. This was something men did. It was okay that they were colleagues. Some colleagues even went to go to strip clubs together. It was also okay that their children were best friends. Their eleven-year-old children. The children whose potty-training habits they’d discussed.
And Mr. Tabris was cool. If Mr. Tabris deigned to grace a fine establishment such as this with his presence, then certainly Alistair was that much classier for appreciating the same sort of exotic dancing he did.
Alistair took another breath, steeled himself, and tried not to burst out of the bathroom with too much fanfare. Fortunately, the roaring audience was sufficiently distracted by the short dancer back on stage, upside down on the pole with only her legs gripping the steel from above.
Seated at the bar was Mr. Tabris, back to her, tumbler in hand. No, not Mr. Tabris. Alistair knew his name. Definitely. Something with an E.
Edward, Evan, Eldric--
“Funny seeing you here, Evaric,” Alistair chirped, sliding into the barstool that left one seat empty between them. A burly man to Alistair’s right barely gave him a look, and neither did Mr. Tabris.
Damn. Wrong name?
The crowd cheered again, and Mr. Tabris cast an uninterested glance over his shoulder. Alistair stiffened, nearly twisting his neck in a manic effort to smile at the bartender.
“Alistair?”
He couldn’t help it. He jumped, flicked nervous eyes to his left. Mr. Tabris, shiny black shade-less, had raised eyebrows and lips parted in surprise.
“Evaric,” Alistair greeted him with a definitely not-squeaky response. Mr. Tabris’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his hairline.
They stared at each other for a very long second. Mr. Tabris had very brown eyes, noticeable against how wide they were.
Mr. Tabris, of course, was the first to crack a smile, raising his glass. “They make a mean old-fashioned here, huh?”
Alistair nodded once, twice, way too many times to be normal. “I try something new every time I’m here and I’m never disappointed.”
Fuck. It was true, but did Mr. Tabris need to know he came here often?
“Do you,” Kieran’s best friend’s father intoned. He took a slow sip from his drink while Alistair continued babbling.
“I have kind of diverse tastes, I guess. And there’s not really a place in Denerim that offers so many kinds of things to try, at least not nearby. So I like to come here to unwind. I’m really only adventurous in this one boring place.”
Why wasn’t Mr. Tabris looking at him? What was so absorbing about that one specific ice cube floating in his old-fashioned? Alistair stared at it, too, and shut up.
“What’s your favorite...drink? Here, I mean?” Mr. Tabris finally said when Alistair was growing bored with the ice cube and contemplating waving the bartender back over.
“It’s a little weird,” Alistair hedged, but of course that only got Mr. Tabris to smile encouragingly. “It’s called a Starkhaven Poet.”
“You like Starkhaven Poets, huh? Wouldn’t’ve figured you for the type.”
“It’s whiskey,” Alistair explained, missing the way Mr. Tabris bit back another grin. “Whiskey and rose syrup. With lemon juice and cold tea on top.”
“Rose syrup?”
“Most places don’t have it. But The Pearl does. It’s surprisingly fancy.”
Mr. Tabris didn’t answer, but he did lift his fingers a couple hairbreadths above the counter. The bartender materialized like he’d been magically summoned. “A...Starkhaven Poet for my friend here,” he said, nodding at Alistair one barstool away. The bartender didn’t bat an eye, setting to work scooping ice. “You look like you could use it,” Mr. Tabris said to Alistair.
Was he sweating? When had he started sweating? Alistair thumbed the side of his nose, and yes, it came away a little damp. He tried to talk and distract Mr. Tabris from the way he was wiping the sweat off on his jeans. “Glad to have the weekend to myself after a long day,” he made up.
“Kieran with his mom?”
Alistair nodded, relieved to have a familiar topic. The music blasting through the speakers faded into something slower with a jazzy feel. “Yeah, every weekend. Adaia?”
“With Leliana, yeah.” The bartender set the Starkhaven Poet in front of him, and Alistair sipped it through the dinky little straw without remembering to thank the guy. “Adaia hasn’t been doing too great in science, and I really can’t help with that. So it’s good that she’s with her mom.”
“Leliana went to some fancy Orlesian school, right?” Alistair piped up.
“She’s Orlesian, so presumably,” Mr. Tabris laughed. “They have a more varied curriculum there. And Leliana was always bright, so…” He shrugged. “Just another way she’s better suited to helping Adaia than me.”
“Hey,” Alistair chided, but Mr. Tabris waved him off with his half-drained glass.
“I’m kidding. How’s your Poet?”
Alistair blinked and looked around the slowly-emptying dance floor. The birthday boy was staggering out the door with the large group of friends who’d dragged him.
“Your drink, Alistair.”
He flushed, but Mr. Tabris didn’t sound annoyed or even mocking. “It’s great,” Alistair said, thrusting the highball across the empty barstool. “Wanna try it?”
Mr. Tabris’s face was unreadable. It was only now that Alistair noticed his shiny black shades were still present, folded neatly in the front blazer pocket, glinting in the steadily changing strobe lights. “You’re not gonna card me, too, are you?”
Alistair chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that. They should’ve carded me, too.”
“You can grow a beard. I can’t.” Mr. Tabris took the offered glass and lifted it to his lips. He didn’t use the straw, sipping from the edge and staring at some point behind Alistair’s head.
Alistair didn’t realize he was watching Mr. Tabris drink until well past the point of not-weird. He cleared his throat when Mr. Tabris handed him back his Starkhaven Poet. He did not look when Mr. Tabris’s tongue darted out to catch a whiskey droplet on his own thumb. Instead, he sipped from his little straw and pretended that the burly man sitting to his right wasn’t calling one of the dancers over.
“It was pretty good,” Mr. Tabris granted him. “Not sure I’d call it my favorite.”
“Everyone’s a critic.”
“Guess I’m not one for poetry. More of an old-fashioned sort of guy. I like the classics.” Mr. Tabris drained his glass in one fluid motion and signaled to the bartender, miming a pen writing in empty air. The bartender zipped into existence once more, handing him a credit card and receipt. “Sorry to bail on you, Alistair, but I’m a strict one-drink driver. Don’t need to stick around for anything else, right?”
Mr. Tabris signed the receipt, and Alistair couldn’t help but notice his elaborate signature. Alistair’s was a hasty, scribbled thing he hadn’t changed since he first learned script. “Nice seeing you outside of work.”
“We’ll get Kieran and Adaia together soon,” Alistair said, but Mr. Tabris only hmmed, folded up his copy of the receipt, and was soon wading through the thinning crowd of sex-fueled people with a hand raised in farewell.
“I’m good to go, too,” Alistair said to the bartender, who was no longer there, instead chatting with a patron further down. The burly man was now being attended to by a very thin young woman with a seductive smirk frozen on her lips. Alistair edged into the seat that had stood between him and Mr. Tabris, summoned his courage, and mimed writing a pen.
The bartender faded into sight. “You’re all set.”
“Huh?” Alistair managed, already reaching into his jeans pocket for his wallet.
“You had the Starkhaven Poet, right?” Alistair nodded. “You were on Evaric’s tab.”
“Oh. Well, guess I owe him a favor,” Alistair said to thin air. The bartender had moved on. “Or a drink, at least.”
Under the gap between the floor and the black velvet curtain, purple and blue lights drew Alistair’s eye. The shadows of shoes blotted out the glow every few drumbeats.
Don’t need to stick around for anything else, right?
It occurred to Alistair, back in his minivan and zooming along the express lane home, that Mr. Tabris had apparently had a tab open, and yet he’d said he always stopped at one drink. But this realization was overshadowed by the distinct embarrassment of calling him “Mr. Tabris” in the privacy of Alistair’s own mind.
Evaric, Alistair reminded himself. The man’s name was Evaric.
