Witchfire - Tea Room and Bookstore Cafe [Closed, open to readers]

Most October days in Edinburgh tended towards the brisk, chilly and foggy, but this one…

 “Brrrr, we’ll definitely need to get the fire going today, won’t we, Ros?” Laena huddles around her first cup of tea of the day as she tries to gather the resolve to get out of her hideously comfortable (and very warm) robe and put on actual _clothes_. The horror. “Definitely soup for the lunch special today… Chicken, maybe,” she muses to herself.

The small, rather rotund corgi whoofs, perhaps in response, perhaps as a reminder it’s time for her walk.

”Right, right, hold your horses, I’m coming…”

Perhaps an hour later, the sign at the front of the small cafe flips to open. It's early yet, just past eight, but students at the University building around the corner would be flocking in, soon enough.

“… I have added the essay requirements to your online workbooks, the deadline is in three weeks time, I will not still be marking essays come December, I will not work in that month of the year, thank you very much.” The students are already beginning to scurry from the lecture hall, dragging on their coats and hats to brave the northern climes. “No more than five thousand words, Heraclitus as interpreted by the philosophers that succeeded him, I do not -care- who you choose so long as I am not compelled to kill myself reading the contents of your essays. Try to keep them succinct.” The professor too has reached for his coat - a thick black wool blend overcoat to stave off the chill of the wind. The students are quick to leave and, for his sins, Dreuer is the last to close the door of the lecture theatre and step out, back into reality. Heraclitus was wasted on these undergraduates. He presses his vape to his lips before turning to head town the street, the wind already biting cold even in these first suggestive flutters of winter. Leaves bluster on the wind which whips his odourless smoke away in less than a second. He knows where he is going, for it’s where he always goes. To the cafe in the gallery with the bookshelves, and the quiet corner where no one may trouble him. He could, at least, sequester himself here until his next lecture,

Laena hums softly as she checks the registry readout in the quiet between the morning rush and the first lunch customers. A few patrons were enjoying cups of tea, late breakfasts or sweet treats, but it had nothing on the mayhem of 8:45 on a Tuesday. She checks the clock, 11:07. Still time. The chicken soup stood ready, the creamy potato leek soup she'd whipped up as a vegetarian alternative simmering, the displays were refilled, Jen was in the midst of prepping sandwiches... Perhaps she'd even have time for a sneaky biscuit.

Her tail wags softly from her usual spot near the fire. It's good to be a spoiled, chubby little dog. Even if her human won't let her jump on the couches.

The bell over the door chimes pleasantly. A little melody to announce finding sanctuary from the cold. He shudders, his glasses immediately steaming up. He had quite forgotten he was still wearing them. He takes them off and folds them into his pocket before approaching the counter, still huddled into his coat. “A pot of earl grey. Please.”

According to her staff, her friends, and her family, Helaena Cresswell has a few different smiles. One's for customer service. Broad, almost too bright, positively chirpy. Another's for interactions she can't get out of. A bit strained, small, barely there. And then there's the one for friends. For loved ones. For people she genuinely likes. Her cheeks dimple and her eyes light up, the beginnings of laugh lines showing it's one she uses quite often. Professor Dreuer Wildfel doesn't get her customer service smile. "Hello, professor." She'd pulled out a sachet of earl grey the second she spotted his silhouette in her doorway. "Horrible weather today, isn't it? I'm lucky I won't have to go out in it much, and it's obviously nice and warm in here." She's still in a cozy, cable knit sweater, mostly to protect her against the draft coming through the door, but it's much preferable to being stuck out in the chill. "The tea'll be just a moment. Is there anything else you'd like today?" She can't help but be a little hopeful he'll get something to eat, perhaps, linger at her counter long enough for more than a sentence or two exchanged before he withdraws to his favorite armchair. It's foolish. She only even knows he's a professor because he always wears his U of E badge. Professor Dreuer Wildfel, Classics Department. She doesn't know the man at all. He barely speaks, and when he does it's brief and to-the-point. He communicates more in hums and grunts than words. He's also unfailingly polite, has never been anything but wholly respectful, and he comes to her cafe at least twice a week. He always brings books, he smiles when she brings him a fresh pot of tea, and Ros likes him. Laena likes him too. Even though she shouldn't. It's just a little. It's fine. It's absolutely fine.

Dreuer… doesn’t smile. He has no soft, approachable tutor demeanour, nor does he really have any family to be open with. His expression seems to be set permanently to consternation, as if the crease between his brows constantly plays host to a thousand thoughts jostling for space. He doesn’t speak much, not unless he’s in front of a classroom and someone is paying him to be there. Most folks are lucky to get a grunt of acknowledgement from him. Except Helaena. “Hmh… not this morning, thank you.” He says, his words a quiet rumble like a distant storm. “… though…. Will you have soup? At lunchtime?” His visits are becoming more frequent, not that he would dare admit it to himself. She was… kind. Relentlessly kind, even in the face of his dour demeanour that he had crafted so carefully to be off-putting. “It is… hmh… far nicer in here than out there. In the wind.”

"You know me, professor, I never turn down a chance for soup." No, he doesn't, but you'd like him to. She blushes, just a little, but tries to cover it by busying herself setting a tray with a cup, saucer, the ceramic teapot, and a small pitcher of milk. Professor Wildfel never took sugar with his tea, so she'd stopped putting it on his trays. If she also hides a piece of shortbread under the upturned cup, that's between her and the bakery display. "I have the chicken soup ready now, and the potato-leek soup needs maybe another half an hour. And then the normal spread, obviously. "It's definitely a day for soup and tea and a warm fire. Or coffee, obviously. If you prefer. I've always been more of a tea girl, though, there's nothing like a huge mug of piping hot black tea to-" Aaaaaand you're talking too much. She pushes the tray forward, within Dreuer's reach, and prays for the old wooden floorboards to swallow her up. "The tea'll need another minute or two to steep. Would you like to pay now or when you leave?"

He never wants to leave. Any excuse to stay a while longer, and he will take it. “I will come back to pay. If that’s alright… I would like to stay.” He takes the tray, ever happy to see the pot, the cup, the subtle ritual of making tea. It’s a little injection of joy in his day. At least he tells himself it’s the tea, and keeps the fact that it’s the company to his subconscious. you are old enough to be her father, you old fool. “Thank you.” He looks away, grumbling, to carry his tea to his favourite corner. His favourite chair. He can see the counter from here, for which he chastises himself. It’s inappropriate for him to even dare to think she might want to smile in his direction. But he can hope.

She escapes into the kitchen, face distorted in a wince she tries to hide in a crate of tomatoes waiting to be rinsed, hulled and sliced.

"And how was Professor Wildfel today?" Jenevelle looked up from her umpteenth roast beef sandwich of the day, grinning broadly.

"He knows you, does he? Have you had many conversations about soup?" Astarion's busy at the dishwasher between coffee orders, but that will never stop him from being a little shit.

She's supposed to be their employer. Their boss. And somehow, she lets them get away with this. "Just leave me alone," Laena pleads, knowing she will be given no such mercy.

He doesn't even pause. "Professor is a cute little nickname and all, but you could always ask to call him _Dreuer._" The way he pronounces it, it sounds more like dryer.

"Dreuer," she corrects automatically. "Like 'lawyer,' not like dryer." The fact that she knew that off the top of her head... wasn't helping things.

"He's cute, Lae, if you like that whole DILF dark academia thing, but he's like, twice your age, right?" Despite her teasing, the half-elf sounds genuinely concerned.

"He's just a regular, okay?" she protests. But she doesn't remember the pronunciation of the obscure names of her other regulars, and they all know it.

"Just a regular whose chair, in a prime spot, you keep empty, claiming it's reserved. Despite the fact we don't take reservations. Just a regular whose weird-ass name you have now corrected me on the pronunciation of twice. Just a regular whom you _keep sneaking biscuits._"

"... it was lemon shortbread today."

"Christ on a fucking bike, Laena..."

"Look, I _know_, okay? I'm not stupid. Nothing's going to happen, and it shouldn't. I'm just... stupid," she admits.

"Not the most harebrained crush I've had, not by a long shot, but you're usually the sensible one, Lae."

She rolls her eyes. "I am the sensible one. It'll be fine, I'll be fine. Especially if he stops wearing turtlenecks," she adds under her breath.

Astarion has the ears of a bat. "I sincerely doubt that, my dear, his wardrobe seems to be half black turtlenecks and the other half grey button-downs."

"Nothing wrong with a man knowing what suits him," Jen argues.

Her employees devolve into a discussion of men's fashion, something about sticking to classics versus updating with new trends, but Laena's caught wondering if Dreuer _will_, in fact, stay for lunch. She hopes he does.

He had decided to stay for lunch the moment he walked through the door. He settles in his favourite chair, his tea steeping, a biography of Diogenes Laertius in his hands as he unfolds his glasses and perches them on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at the counter. She’s probably busy. Of course she’s busy. He’s best placed reading, not ruminating over a girl that has no interest in old men. She probably has a partner. He is probably better off, as always, alone.

"Lives and Opinions? Which one?" Laena wonders aloud, the better part of an hour later. "I was medieval Iberia myself, not a ton of classics in there, but I took a few Philosophy credits. Can't get past the Greeks, nor did I want to, even if I focused more on the-" Stop. Talking. She usually leaves Astarion to do the clearing, but, well... she's stupid. "I'm sorry, I'll just blab on if you don't stop me." If I'm nervous, at least. Dreuer makes her nervous. The kind of nervous a romance author might describe as butterflies or intestinal acrobatics or what have you. For fuck's sake, Lae, don't think about your trashy romance habit right now. "Do you, uh... have everything you need?"

He isn’t expecting to hear it. No one outside of the department really seem to care about biographies of biographers that lived thousands of years ago. He looks up at her, an inquisitive glimmer in his hazel eyes over the top of his spectacles. He tucks his thumb into the book to mark his page and closes it carefully. “It’s Dorandi’s revised version so… not so much Lives and Opinions as it is Complaints and Derision.” He almost smiles. “I would like a chicken soup. Please, if I am not too early for lunch.” He asks placidly, watching her the way one might observe a kingfisher diving into water. She fascinates him. He has heard her talking before now, with other professors and other students. She has a keen mind. It’s intriguing.

She chuckles at the frankly absurdly nerdy joke. But it's just so damn charming, and it's about as much life as she's ever gotten out of him. Laena always had a weakness for the clever ones, for dry wits and deep thinkers. Damn it all. "I'm going to go ahead and assume you've read it a dozen times, unless classics started meaning something else in the past few years." She shrugs, a bit sheepishly. "Still, I've probably read my old paperback of Ibn Battuta to rags by now, so I've no room to judge." She did like a good adventure, even if she was happy to experience it from her couch, with a nice cup of tea. Given Dreuer's choice of career, he might be in agreement. "And no, not at all!" Laena smiles, pleased he'll be staying for a bit longer, after all. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "We usually serve it with bread and butter, but I could whip up another side for you if you've prefer? You- well, you know our menu by now, I think." Please. Stop. Talking. She's going to go scream in the walk-in after this. Not even Astarion's knowing grin will be able to stop her.

“With bread and butter will be fine.” He has finished his tea, the crumbs on the side of the saucer are enough to show that he was grateful for the shortbread. He places his book face down on the table, the nicotine cravings nibbling at the back of his mind already. “May I also have another tea? …please?” He digs his vape from his pocket, getting to his feet. It would win him no favours with anyone to start puffing away indoors, annoying everyone. Going out to smoke had become second nature to him when he was still a cigarette smoker anyway. And Laena wouldn’t give his table away. She never did.

She runs to scream in the walk-in. It's very cathartic. Unfortunately, when Laena returns, she suffers a brief pang of panic at the sight of Dreuer's spot abandoned, but his book is still there, his bag is still there, and he hasn't left any money on the table. Dreuer had never left a bill unpaid, he usually even left a tip. Gone out for a smoke, then. Or a vape, perhaps, she'd never noticed the distinct whiff of cigarettes lingering around him. Calm the fuck down, he wouldn't order lunch and then leave. She clears the last round of tea, and puts in the order for the soup and a fresh pot. Jen shoots her a half knowing, half concerned look as she offers to take it out herself, but, well... Stupid. It is a bit early for lunch, in truth, but the fragrance of the piping hot, hearty broth (a rather old fashioned take on the classic, only slightly modified from her Gran's recipe) and the fresh, homemade bread, still warm from the oven is enough to tempt anyone. Not bad at all. She is proud of her cooking, and enjoys serving "real" food, even if the profit margin on premade items is higher. Everyone deserves to have a decent meal. Even if it is just soup. "Chicken soup, bread, butter, and a pot of earl grey," she announces, placing the items down on the table more frequently covered in Dreuer's research than actual food. "I hope you enjoy."

2

Scram ( durge: Dreuer )

marilewd

Ell (Tav: Rosie and Co.)

polarized2023

Close

It’s horrible out in the howling wind, but at least he can huddle back in soon enough. Back to his favourite corner where his glasses steam up from the warmth, and occasionally that little dog will pass by to clear up the crumbs from around his feet. It feels more like a home than anywhere outside of his actual home that he’s ever known. He returns to his book, his tufted tail curling neatly underneath the chair as he settles comfortably back, crossing his legs. He looks up every now and then, usually when she’s not looking, to watch her busy about like a bee in a hive. He tells himself it’s no more than people watching. An admiration for her industrious work ethic. When he catches her approaching he puts his book down on the table again, face down once more. It doesn’t feel like sacrilege as much to crack the spine of a cheap, plastic covered repro library book. If it was one of his first editions, he would shudder at the very idea. “Thank you.” He almost smiles again. Maybe he should be braver. He should say something else to her… but the words don’t come. Just an appreciative nod.

Another one of those almost-smiles. She counts each one a victory. It's not a true smile, his lips barely move at all, but his eyes soften, and for a moment you can see the echo of laugh lines. Laena waits for a moment, hoping he'll say something, anything else, even if it's about the damn weather, but no. "Let me know if you need anything else." She tries not to be disappointed. Why would she be? What, you expect him to want to talk Diogenes Laertius with you all day? Grow the fuck up. But she can't help that her smile flickers for a moment, her eyes dropping down to her tray, her work, her hands, all things she can focus on, to not think. That was part of the problem with academia for her. Too much time for her mind to wander and get caught in spirals. There's something very tangible, very satisfying about working with her body, of putting a muffin or a slice of pie on a plate and knowing she made that, with her efforts, and it'll make more of a difference to someone's day than any number of academic papers published just to be published. Besides, her less impressive job title didn't stop her from learning, or from having a brain. It did sting, every time someone was shocked she had a graduate degree, every time one of the many students dropping through her doors asked why on Earth a tea lady knew so much about their course work. But she was used to that by now.

She’s a nice girl in a coffee shop. A nice girl, with an impeccable talent for cooking, a smile on her face and an unexpected interest in the old philosophers. She will already have a partner. A partner in their twenties who isn’t a greying, middle aged, lonely old widower that isn’t worth her time. Don’t be a fool, Wildfel. She is not interested in you. He finishes his soup, drinks his tea and checks his watch. He needs to make it back to campus by one, and lingering in here will do him no favours. He pays his bill to the pale haired man behind the counter (Helaena, he supposes, is busy… which he shouldn’t be sad about, she has a cafe to run) and heads back to the campus buildings. The afternoon is one of long, rambling lectures to a clutch of uninterested undergraduates and archaeology students with elective modules. No one is interested in the philosophy or the art, not in any way that matters. Not yet, anyway. He finds it frustrating that he cannot inspire the same wonder, the same deep admiration as he holds himself. By the time he leaves (5pm) it is raining. He puts up his umbrella and walks the short yet unnecessarily damp walk back to his apartment in Glengyle Terrace. He chose a basement apartment, the steps leading from the street down beneath street level. Sunlight (when it dared to show its face) streamed in at an angle from a deep window. He unlocks the green front door and steps inside.

The cat is hungry, waiting by the door for his master’s triumphant return. His chimneysweep tail shivvers expectantly as he weaves between Dreuer’s wet trouser legs.

“Yes yes alright, I know… you are wasting away.” He murmurs, looking down as expectant green-gold eyes glint up at him critically.

The cat turns tail and jogs into the little kitchen.

There is a small fridge freezer in the corner by the back door, a door which leads to a very small courtyard mostly containing the rubbish bins of everyone else who lives in the upper floors of the terraced house. He still has a gas cooker, the kind with an eye-level grill, which he turns on while he feeds his poor, long suffering housepet. A crackling radio in the corner plays Classic FM to keep the cat company. The long, extended antenna is pushed up against a slightly sorry looking spider plant. Holst’s Saturn. Not Dreuer’s favourite piece from the Planets suite but he hums along to it nonetheless as he undercooks his toast and overcooks his bacon (he manages to reheat some beans on the stovetop without too much trouble). He eats. He reads. He has a glass of wine. He retires to his small bathroom, equipped with a dated avocado bath, sink and lavatory. Half an hour soaking in hot water puts him in a somnolent mood, and soon enough he is in bed, asleep beneath this beloved large patchwork bedspread. It’s one of the few thinks in his apartment he has had since childhood.

He’s an unusual man. Then again, Fluff supposes, not all academics are high flying, jetsetting lecturers that travel to far flung corners of the globe to share their knowledge. No… Dreuer is a home body. And Fluff is rather glad of that - who else would feed him pilchards from the tin and scratch his ears in just the right way? The cat falls asleep as he always does - at the foot of the bed.

Come morning, the routine is always the same. Wake up. Cough until he thinks he might actually die. Survive. Brush teeth. Contemplate shaving and refuse. Breakfast: two pieces of brown toast with marmalade and breakfast for Fluffikins: Three pilchards in tomato sauce straight from the tin. Dreuer dresses warm, the sound of a light rain permeating through the apartment from both the front and back windows. Best to take his umbrella. He turns on classic FM for Mr Fluffikins (Grieg, Peer Gynt suite, Dawn) and makes his way out into the inclement weather. The walk to the university is short, but it feels twice as long when it is raining so… miserably. There is no drama in this rain, no great storm. No thick accompanying fog no cold drizzle it’s just… rain for the sake of making the ground wet, and it irritates him. Fortunately his mood is bound to be improved across Teviot Place. He wonders how long Helaena has been working already, if she has been preparing breakfasts for hungover students and early bird professors. He wonders, foolishly, if she might be pleased to see him. He drops his umbrella and gives it a shake in the doorway before stepping inside, and taking his place in the queue.

Fucking hell, it's busy today. Laena's a whirlwind of motion, barely managing to keep up between the never-ending crush of to-go orders and trying to get things to sit-down customers in something resembling an orderly fashion. The rushes are her least favorite part of the job, but it is a good chunk of how she can keep the place running without having to cut costs or reduce her own salary to the point she's eating nothing but cafe leftovers. She's so in the zone, barking [read, relaying in a slightly raised and urgent tone] orders at her staff, Astarion slinging drinks orders at the speed of light, Jen ferrying trays back and forth, Karlach and Lae'zel bickering in the kitchen, she almost misses Dreuer. Suddenly, he's just there, quiet and calm and not-quite-smiling, a harbor in the storm. Her lips form her first genuine smile of the morning. "Good morning, professor." You're so fucked.

He does his best to retain his cool, watching her zip back and forth, the queen of her domain. The students in front of him are talking. The professor behind him is on their phone. No one else is spectating this incredible feat. “Good morning… Hel-…. Helaena.” It’s not that he doesn’t know her name. Unfortunately for him he has been unable to forget it since the moment he first overheard it. There’s a familiar voice in the back of his mind calling him a sentimental idiot. But he still doesn’t feel it’s right. He has no right to know her name, he has not earned the right to use it. He is a sulking old man here to collect his double shot americano without milk and leave… and inevitably come back later for lunch, just to see her again. “Hmh… busy this morning… are you alright?” He asks as he steps closer to the counter. It’s his best attempt at small talk.

He called me Helaena. Her full name has always sounded a bit formal to her, a bit old fashioned. But her father loved the classics, and her mother wanted a variation from Helena, so Helaena it became. Even if she has to spell it out every damn time. It's never sounded as lovely as in his low, pleasant voice. He's married, you fucking idiot. Dreuer never wore any other jewelry, either, so what else could the simple band on the fourth finger of his left hand be? Probably a fellow busy professional, a doctor or lawyer perhaps. Someone as brilliant as the few glimpses of his thoughts she's been allowed to see. Someone who gets to hear all his jokes about editions of Diogenes Laertius. Sometimes she's a little jealous of them, this person she doesn't have a name for, a face, not even a gender. She's so goddamned stupid. Are you alright? He's the first person to ask that in... a while. Wow. "It's busy, yes, but I'm used to it." She shrugs, a bit ruefully. "It'll clear out in half an hour or so when classes start. I prefer it a bit quieter, later in the day. More time to chat." With you, maybe. If you'd like? Oh god, this is pathetic. "What can I get for you today?" Double shot americano, no milk. He always gets the same thing in the mornings. Memorizing it definitely just makes her a good business owner. Regulars are important. Regulars are what keep her afloat in the quiet seasons, when the students and tourists thin out. Yeah, that's why.

He’s not the most intuitive man. He can be rather blind to the needs of others, and ignorant of that which does not affect him. Especially in the past few years, his insular behaviour has only gotten worse. Maybe it’s because it’s obvious, or because he has spent more time watching her than would be proper to admit. But he can see something in her. He should say something. “A-… hmh. Yes. Double shot americano, no milk please.” He had acquired a taste for black coffee, though it had taken time to wean himself from cream and sugar. Now, it was all that kept him going on these cold unforgiving mornings. He should say something more. Strike up a conversation. Be brave, for fuck’s sake… He never used to be like this. Surely there had been a time where he would have asked her to join him. He would have offered to help her with the cafe, have perhaps even been brave enough to say more than a handful of grunted, disjointed words. But that time had passed. He was acutely aware of the grey in his hair and the deep rooted loneliness he had carved out for himself, and how no one so sweet and so clever and so young would ever want to join him in it.

Her heart sinks when his eyes shutter again, the little glimpse into someone she likes to think is kind, gentle, really quite funny even if his humor is bone dry, almost sweet and utterly brilliant disappears, and there's just a taciturn man ordering coffee. Polite, always, but... distant. He does this every single time. You can't keep hoping, Laena. She just wants a friend, right? Someone who might actually be even more of a nerd than her. Someone to split a pot of tea and enjoy a slice of cake and an intellectually stimulating conversation with. That's not... too unreasonable. That's not inappropriate, or insane, or utterly foolish. Except for the part where you have a stupid-ass crush on a man at least a decade your senior. Two was probably more likely. Oh, and he happens to be married. "Coming right up." If her smile fades, and she barely looks at him as she turns away to relay the order to Astarion, well... It seems like less of a lie than putting on a bright customer service grin. [She is a terrible liar.]

Again, he almost smiles. It reaches his eyes but that’s as far as it manages to go, as if he has forgotten how. He felt responsible for the sudden dulling of her tone, as if he had pulled something from underneath her. His stomach twists with a strange guilt. But this is no less than he deserves, at least that is what he believes. He stands aside to let the professor behind him get to the counter.

“Oat milk latter please-… Wildfel, is that you?” Halsin hadn’t been looking while they queued, his nose in his phone before he reached the counter.

Dreuer blinks, his attention taking a moment to catch up with his thoughts. “… Silverbough. I thought you were on sabbatical with the family.” He says dully.

Halsin laughs warmly. The man has so many children, Dreuer has lost count. His smile is friendly, however, and he was perhaps the only other professor who had retained a sense of sympathy for more than a year. “Good lord, no. We had all summer, but they’re off to universities of their own now. Time for me to get my hands dirty again.”

Dreuer nods, not really paying much attention. His gut prickles with envy for Halsin and his family, with everything he could possibly want within his reach.

“I hope you’ve been keeping well… still on Glengyle Street?”

Dreuer’s tail links around his own ankle. “Yes.” He replies shortly.

Is it silly and stupid and all sorts of other things that she still brings Dreuer his coffee herself, instead of having Astarion sling it over the counter with a barked "Dryer!"? Yes. Is she going to do it anyway? Yes. "Double-shot americano, no milk." Had he taken it to stay, she might have slipped him a biscuit or a pastry. But he never eats in the mornings. The fact that she knows this definitely isn't concerning. "Your oatmilk chai latte will be ready in a moment, Halsin." Halsin had introduced himself within three visits, inquired which variety of her name she preferred, and then proceeded to drop pleasant anecdotes about his children and his garden whenever time allowed. She likes Halsin. He's a good man, and a great regular. He's not like Dreuer. Glengyle Street. Close. No wonder he walked to work every day. It's somehow... comforting, to know Dreuer is reserved with even someone as overwhelmingly warm and friendly as Halsin Silverbough. It's not just her. But you're nothing special, either. "Have a nice day, professor. I hope you enjoy your coffee." It's always so easy to muster a smile for him, even if it has a tinge of sadness to it today.

As before he almost smiles back. As if something deep within his soul has closed cold hands around his heart, pulling him to stoicism. And she is so kind in the face of it. How must he look to her? Well…miserable, of that he’s sure. He has set himself deep in isolation, in the belief that this is how his life is supposed to be. His hands close around the warmth of the coffee cup. Black americano, two shots of espresso. There’s warmth there. “Thank you.” He says quietly. The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s the closest so far that he’s come to a smile. He steps out again, raising his umbrella to cross the road to the faculty building. He’ll be back at lunch time.

“Thank you Laena… the weather could be more polite today don’t you think?” He glances behind him to the door to say farewell to his colleague, but the tuft of Dreuer’s tail has already vanished into the grey. He knew why this time of year was hard for him. His smile is sympathetic, but he shakes his head nonetheless. It’s been five years, and the man still bears the wound as though it’s fresh.

"Could might be the right word." Laena chuckles as she wipes a spill of coffee off the counter. The crush is beginning to slow a little, enough she can nod Jen over to man the register while she takes a minute to breathe. "I might not have lived here for more than four years, but I've learned never to trust the weather in Edinburgh. Especially not in October." She'd been born and raised in the south, in one of the many suburbs of London. Edinburgh had been a change in more than climate. Still, she'd needed to get away. And Edinburgh was still close enough she could visit her family without spending more than half a day in the train. "Would you like anything else today, Halsin?" Unlike Dreuer, the ethnobotany professor always had an appetite befitting his size. And quite a sweet tooth.

“Oh it never gets any easer, trust me. i’ve been here since I myself was a student… and I dread to think what you would say if I told you how long ago that was.” He is the polar opposite of his faculty colleague. Where Dreuer is closed, Halsin is open. His smile is warm and his bearing is gentle. Not abrasive and concealed. “I’m alright for now, thank you Laena. Would you keep an eye on Wildfel today if he comes back in? He seems rather more melancholic than usual… which I must admit is quite the achievement.”

Another sad little smile. "I would have even if you hadn't asked, Halsin." She holds a certain fondness for most of her regulars. Laena likes people, it's part of why she loves her job, why she chose it in the first place. It matters that she can look out in the tearoom and see people she knows, people she cares about, people she likes to think care at least a little about this place too. He has been even quieter than normal. The gloom of the coming winter is getting to them all, but Dreuer... What little spark there is in his shuttered eyes seems to have gone out, and it's harder to get them to open. "My father struggles with seasonal affective disorder," Laena muses out loud. "But it helps him to use sun lamps or to go south, where it's warmer and brighter. Or maybe that's just an excuse for a holiday. Is Dreuer like that, do you think?" Dreuer, who is probably closer to her father in age than he is her. Stop it, that's irrelevant.

“Dreuer? No no… at least I don’t think so. He used to rather enjoy the autumn.” He muses with a sad smile. “I won’t air his laundry in public… Dreuer Wildfel is a very private man, but the isolation, I think, gets to him when the days grow shorter.”

Ah, so there was a story there. Still, she respected Halsin's commitment to his colleague's privacy. Wait, isolation? Wasn't he married? She feels isolated at times. So lonely she could scream. Of course she does. Of course part of her longs for a partner, a shared life, dinners shared with more than her dog. But this is the life she chose, and the benefits outweighed the downsides. She's done settling just to fight the depressing solitude, done seeking validation in the arms of people who didn't truly care about her, done going on a hundred first dates with people looking for something, someone else. Done trying to change herself. She has friends. She has family. She has her cafe, and her staff, and her regulars, who are all an odd sort of family, too. And that's enough. "I'll keep an eye on him. You have my word. If he comes through my door, he'll leave warm and fed, at the very least." Contentment or happiness might be too much to hope for. But she's always been a hopeful fool.

“Thank you… oh, and don’t tell him I asked after him. He’ll be insufferable.” The elf chuckles, his chai latte in hand as he makes his exit. “You have a good day Laena, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

"You too, Halsin!" Laena takes exactly ten seconds to close her eyes, to breathe, to recenter. And then she gets back to work.

the morning is steady. He loiters longer than he has any right to in the foyer of the building, looking over the marble reliefs of gods and heroes that stand around the hall. Each one felt significant somehow. There’s a painting of Achilles and Patroclus that he avoids looking at. Hang the cold weather. He heads back out into the rain, puffing on his vape and scowling at the clouds before retreating once more inside, up to his office. The morning holds a tutorial with a small clutch of masters students, and then he is able to escape back to his office for a brief respite. There’s a meeting before lunch about departmental spending that drags, and ultimately he ends up returning to Helaena’s cafe later than he would like with a rumbling stomach and a foul disposition. Hang the rain.

The lighter fare she serves in summer would officially be misplaced. It's the season of soups and stews, of pies and bakes. Fuck it, steak and ale pie it is. "Karlach, do we have any of that lager left?" Life's simpler when one is shaping pie lid after pie lid, each cut to size with an oversized cookie cutter, gently lifted onto its dish, and the edges crimped. It's repetitive, it's easy, it lets her mind wander. That's not always a good thing. Why would Halsin say he's isolated if he's married? Is he unhappy? Is his partner away often? Is he divorced? Whoa, whoa, down girl!

"Laena love, your professor's here!" the elf singsongs, a grin wide enough to show every single one of his pearly-white teeth splitting his face.

Laena almost ruins her pie lid. "Wait, what? He's not my professor!"

"But you knew exactly who I was talking about."

"Not the point, Asta- you know what, fuck it, finish these."

"I see how it is. Say hello to your beau, would you?"

She doesn't answer, instead she just waves Jen away from her spot at the till and tells her to take her break. "Hello, professor." She is a fool. And she is still smiling for him.

He looks up. His sour mood softens a little. He’s always been weak for a kind word - and her words are always enduringly kind. “Hello.” He says. There’s no almost-smile this time. The morning has tired him out, he considers turning around completely and walking home. But at home all he has to keep him warm is a tin of shop bought soup and some square toast. It’s better for him to be here, he’s sure of that. Here he has good food, a lit fire and fine company. That should stave off the chill. “Sorry um…” he frowns, running a hand over his face. His thoughts are a mess. “… earl grey. Please.” He shuffles to his usual corner, finding sanctuary in the familiar. His familiar chair, familiar table, familiar Helaena… not that she’s his Helaena… Good grief, he must be exhausted.

God, he looks like shit. Dreuer often looks worn down, exhausted, melancholic as Halsin put it. But this might be as bad as she'd seen in the past year or so. Has he eaten anything today? Has he had anything at all but that single cup of coffee she was tempted to make herself? Fuck, I should have snuck him a sandwich or something. She'd get him his pot of tea, but what was that going to help? No, he needs food. Real food. It was past noon, the lunch rush in full swing. She decides to take an executive decision and brings him a plate of pie along with the tea. "Here. You should eat something." You look awful, and I'm worried about you. Halsin is too. "Doesn't take a genius to realize you regularly skip breakfast."

He hasn’t picked up a book. He’s distracted, staring out at the rain. The tyres of passing cars as they pull through puddles. The hssssh of each vehicle felt like a personal attack. Across the road, two students under one umbrella ran for the shelter of the faculty building. It hurt, but it made him smile… if not outwardly. He didn’t notice her approach, turning to look up with wide, almost shocked eyes as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. “Helaena… I’m sorry I-… did I order food?” Maybe he was losing it. His mother in law had told him not to let himself be eaten alive, and against her advice he had become consumed entirely. The only distraction he found was Laena. She pierced through the grey like a beam of sunlight. “Sorry. Thank you… I um… thank you.”

The furrow in her brow deepen. "No, you didn't. You need to eat something. It's on the house, don't worry about it." He looks so lost. So distant. He looks like he isn't seeing her at all. How can I help you? Can anyone? "Professor?" No response, not as much as a blink. "Prof- _Dreuer!_" He finally looks up. "You need to eat. It won't do anyone any good if you let yourself waste away."

“th-… thank you. Sorry I um…” he scowls, and ruffles his fingers through his hair. “… lost in thought.” He looks at her, and she is looking at him with wide eyes heavy with concern. She is so beautiful, he wonders if she knows it. He wonders how disgusted she might be if he were to tell her. He was nothing more than a lecherous old man pining over a girl that had no time for him. And besides… he didn’t need anyone. He was doing fine on his own. He kept telling himself that to hush the voice in his head that chastised him for his continued self neglect.

She nods, only the slightest bit reassured. "Eat something," Laena repeats, her voice soft, almost pleading. She wants to stay with him. She wants to ask what's wrong, what she can do, what he needs. But he's shown zero interest in being anything more than her customer. I'd be worried for any regular. Yeah, not like this, though. "I'll be back in a bit, okay?" She wants to squeeze his shoulder, offer him a blanket, fix his tea for him... But in all likelihood he'd brush her off, confused at best. He doesn't even want to be your friend, Laena.

What has he done to earn her kindness? Is it pity? Lord knows he has had his fill of pity. At first it came in an abundance: flowers, phonecalls, cards, quiet mutterings of “sorry for your loss”… but it all faded in time. Flowers dried up and died, cards got crammed into a long forgotten drawer, the phone stopped ringing. He carried his grief alone now. And he kept carrying it, even though he could have let go a long time ago, let it rest in his soul where it belonged. It can’t be pity… she doesn’t know. “… Helaena?” He clears his throat and averts his gaze, poking through the golden crust of the pie with his fork. “I am lecturing on Diogenes Laertius this afternoon at three… if you would like to join.” He keeps watching the pie. The steam rising from the broken crust. “I know you are probably very busy and don’t want to hear my prattling on but… you seemed interested. That’s more than most of my students.” He owes it to her to give something back. To repay her her kindness. This, he considers, is the least he can offer.

"... a lecture?" Hell, how long has it been since she set foot in a lecture hall? Despite the fact she works right across from one of the largest campuses of the University of Edinburgh, she's never actually stepped foot inside it. "One of your lectures. And you'd... like me to come?" She is... confused is one word for it. Of course she's interested, she's likely to have taken and enjoyed at least one class much like the one his lecture is part of, if at an university several hundred miles south. "Of course I'd be interested, Dreuer." The name slips out unintentionally, before she can stop it. "I'd love to. I'll be there. Just tell me which room it's in, if my accent didn't give me away, I'm not actually Edinburgensian."

she knew his name? Why would she even want to… she had never asked him. Had she asked Halsin? Did that mean… She saw it on your lanyard you fool. “It’s at 3, until 6… will the cafe be… alright? If you leave?”

"I have staff, don't I?" It's so easy to smile for him. Far too easy. And part of her can't help but imagine the glimpses of a brilliant intellect she's seen in her cafe, the dry humor, the ever-present books, and translate that to a lecturer. His style wouldn't be loud, or bright, or overly companionable. But Laena does think it'd be focused, thoughtful, clever, a depth of knowledge the average undergrad would never fathom underpinning every single word. A deeply inappropriate image of him pacing across the dais of a lecture hall, hands gesturing, tail swishing, the sleeves of his turtleneck and the collared shirt below rolled to his elbows, his wonderful voice speaking intently of authorial bias and loss of primary sources and his eyes finding hers in the back rows pops into her head. Fuck me, this might be a bad idea. "They can handle things for an afternoon. I'll leave Jen in charge, hopefully the place will still be standing when I get back." 50/50 really, but better odds than if she let Astarion hold the keys to the castle. Never again. "I do take days off, and there have been no casualties yet."

His face seems to lighten. A step forward out of the gloom, a shallowing of the concerned frown lines between his brows and the scowling of his lips. His eyes are wide and almost hopeful as he looks up at her. “It is the least I can do to repay your kindness.” His smile is fleeting, but it is there. Gone as soon as it manifests as if afraid to stay. “If you go in through the atrium, up the stairs to your right it is the first door ahead of you.”

Oh. Oh no. She'd almost grown used to his not-quite-smiles, warm, open eyes and maybe a twitch of the lips, gone before she was entirely sure it happened at all. She's not used to this. If I thought he was handsome when frowning... She's so screwed. Laena can feel herself blushing, the rush of blood easily visible under her pale skin, so often sun starved in the north. He's not allowed to do that. He's not allowed to look at me like that, all hopeful and kind and sweet and smiling, how am I supposed to survive it? She nods, and clears her throat. "I'll, uh. I'll be there."

He almost smiles again, but spares himself this time. As if he doesn’t deserve to. As if his joy is unwarranted. “I will see you there.” He eats, and she’s right - he was hungry. It’s hard to notice how easily things can slip into negligence. He never took enough care of himself, but that was no recent issue. The issue was no longer having anyone there to nag him into it. The tuts and the quiet, almost pitying little ‘amore, no…’ when he tried to leave the house ungroomed. It passed him by until someone dared to care about him… though he has not yet realised that is what’s happening. He pays his bill, though Helaena would undoubtedly see his food served on the house - she is kind like that - he feels he cannot take from her. Not when she puts so much of her soul into her business. It deserves to be paid for. He is more keen in preparing his lecture in the afternoon than he was the morning. A willing audience always makes for a happier teacher. He hides in his office as the chatter of waiting students lining up outside the lecture hall grows louder, until eventually, at 2:59, he concedes. He leaves his desk and heads across the hall, opening the door wordlessly to allow the students to file in, and heading himself for the desk and lectern at the front.

If she was a bit nervous as she walked across the street at 2:50pm, it was definitely because of the way Jen had grinned and offered to do her makeup. "It's a _lecture_, not a date, Jen!" she'd hissed, color high in her cheeks. "A dark rose would really make those lovely lips pop... Nothing too noticeable, but-" "No!" Or maybe the prospect of leaving her staff to their own devices for three hours. They all loved the place as much as she did, but they did love their antics. She had very carefully re-braided her hair and triple-checked her simple light blue v-neck jumper and dark slacks weren't covered in gravy or flour or any other suspicious stains under her apron. With a fresh swipe of chapstick and her glasses wiped clean of smears, she looked... not awful? He'll probably barely even notice you, you idiot. She finds the described room easily, the crowd of anxious and/or bored humanities students waiting outside giving her a surge of nostalgia so strong it's almost unbearable. Laena had always been a teacher's pet, in truth, always sitting near the front, asking slightly too many questions, reading the materials every single time. She'd always loved to learn. She still does. Then, the door opens, the crowd begins to move, Dreuer's shadow lingering for a moment before he heads further into the room. She only just catches the tip of his tail. She finds a spot near the back, where it's least crowded, not keen to have any of the actual students question her presence. She sits down, trying to tune out the cacophony of voices and rustling and rummaging and moving around from the other students. Instead, her eyes find Dreuer, waiting, tail swishing in irritation or anticipation, his face a closed mask. But I'm here. I care. Even if not a single other person listens to what you have to say, I will.

He is old fashioned in his tutoring style. The compute and projector are eschewed, it seems, in favour of an old OHP and printed acetate. He has written on the whiteboard: “Diogenes Laertius: critiques and concerns” His handwriting is slanted and slightly clumsy, as though not accustomed to writing on boards and far more used to scribbling in notebooks. He waits for the hum of conversationto die down as his tail slowly sweeps back and forth between his heels. He clears his throat, and there is an odd level of gravitas to it. Enough to bring the room to silence as he pushes his sleeves to his elbows and removes his glasses from the bridge of his nose. “Good afternoon.” He says, a simple, low, inoccuous greeting. “If you are unable to remember, or if you perhaps did not attend last week’s lecture and have failed to review the online notes we discussed the work of Diogenes as a critic and commentator on the works of earlier philosophers, such as Heraclitus…” He has a low, almost monotone voice. A voice that many would find boring, and many still might find soothing. Very few would dare to call it engaging. There is however a spark in his eye, a keenness for his subject matter that, if one were to look closely, might surpass his boring intonation. He looks up, and sees her at the back of the room. *She came*. He almost dares to smile again.

His eyes meet hers, just for a moment, and yep, she'd been right, this is very very dangerous. Her lips twitch upwards in a slightly nervous smile, and then his eyes move on, scanning across the students as if he is weighing and measuring each one and finding many wanting. She swallows hard and reaches for her notebook. Her lecture notes used to be a mess of keywords, names and places and dates and concepts, understandable to no one but herself, more akin to a blackboard notation than full sentences. But it's what helps her remember best, it pulls less focus from the lecturer than a small essay, and by god, she will remember every single word Dreuer says if she can. It's just respectful. Common decency. Right?

The room is quiet. Those that are attentive do so respectfully. Those that are bored are already asleep. He speaks loud enough for everyone to hear, that is not the problem. His baritone delivery is a sedative, and his subject matter is inoffensive. For three hours, he paces as he speaks. He has a nervous habit of running his finger and thumb over his top lip, and his tail skips upwards any time he reaches the end of a sentence. He moves acetate sheets onto the projector that show black and white images of ruins, timelines, tablets and carvings. Old copies of translated texts and their long, long dead authors. The sky is dark, inky blue outside by the time he reaches the end. “… the next session will be to discuss the contemporary philosophers’ interpretations and how they might challenge classical views… I have left a reading list on your online… thingy. The portal…” He pulls a face. Perhaps he distrusts technology, perhaps he just dislikes anything developed after 1973. “Go careful as you exit the building, the rain makes the path slippery.” The noise level rises sharply as the students begin to leave. He makes a habit of fiddling with the projector and his own notes, seemingly to avoid any real interaction with students. He keeps his head down.

She stays, at least for a while. Lecturing takes stamina, for both the students and the lecturer. It's easy for focus to drop, for tangents to derail, for information overload to take its toll. She listens. She learns, quite a bit, despite her prior knowledge of the topic. Dreuer looks almost exactly the way she imagined lecturing, quiet yet animated, except he removed his glasses, and it's a bit too cold for rolled sleeves. Shame. Laena somehow manages to absorb the majority of his points despite her eyes lingering on his aquiline nose, prominent in profile, the rumpled mess of his greying curls, the pointed ears poking through them, the tall, slender figure he half hides, half accentuates under simple turtlenecks and trousers. If I'd ogled every single professor I had like this I'd never have gotten through undergrad, god help me. She hears him bidding the students farewell, thoughtfully warning them to take care on the old, worn-smooth stone of the campus buildings, downright dangerous covered in rain or slush. Once the crowd has thinned, she moves down towards the desk, where Dreuer is still busying himself with his notes. "If I'd ever had someone speak so passionately of Heraclitus, I might have changed my specialty," she half-jokes, standing there like a lemon with her jacket still undone and her satchel over her shoulder. "It was a wonderful lecture, professor."

He is glad that the crowd has thinned. By the time she approaches the desk he’s propping his spectacles back on the end of his nose to reorganise his notes and acetates. “You think?” He asks, a slight hopeful lilt to his voice. “It’s rather a turbid subject you see.” And he knows he is no orator. He spends his days in solitude and studies in silence. He is far more suited to sulking among the stacks than standing and speaking to an audience.

Turbid. God, he actually just used that word. Unironically. "I find the scarcity of sources frustrating. So much has been lost, and there's so much we simply don't know." Laena shrugs. "That was a big part of why I ended up going medievalist instead of classics. There it's more sorting through information than finding the gaps and inferring what you can from what we do have. "But it is... incredibly interesting, to be guided through what information we do have. Your depth of knowledge is impressive. It's clear this is a subject you care about very deeply, even if not all of your students do." You're talking too much. "Thank you, by the way. For inviting me. I hope your students appreciate the privilege of having the chance to learn from you. If not, I do."

“Yes… but you see that is not always a bad thing.” Something sparks behind his eyes. “That is where… stories, art, imagination… we can allow that to take over and that is beautiful, don’t you think?” He smiles again. Rare. Earnest. “You are very welcome. I saw you were listening. Thank you. Though I do not think many would call it a privilege.”

I hope I never get used to his smiles. "You don't have to thank me for listening, Dreuer. I wouldn't have come if I wasn't interested in what you have to say." He's called her Helaena more than once. Hopefully he doesn't mind her calling him by his name, too. "And it is beautiful. It's why I love it. But I suppose, especially when I was younger, it was difficult to accept there are things we will simply never know. I wanted to think if I dug deep enough, searched hard enough, I'd find the answer. "I grew up. Some things just don't have an answer. Others there might have been one, and I'll never know. In ancient Greek philosophy and otherwise. Objective truth, if it exists, is almost impossible to find. Unless your philosophers disagree, professor?" The use of his title is deliberate, and just a little teasing. Almost flirting. Shit.

“Oh they may disagree but I do not have to agree with *them*.” He almost has a chuckle about him. Something behind his stoic demeanour that suggests a small flash of humour. He doesn’t recognise what is happening. It’s been far too long since he last flirted with anyone. “Is that why you became creative? With the things you cook?” He asks, his tail swishing back and forth like the steady sway of a clock pendulum.

”Baking is very satisfying that way,” Laena agrees, amused. “There is a correct answer, and you can reliably replicate most results. “But no. I always loved to cook, but I chose it as a profession because it calms me. It’s simple, and satisfying. You have a tangible result at the end of the day. “And my food can make a difference for people, right? A good meal can make someone feel better, or improve their day. It’s the centerpiece for so many events and holidays and occasions. I like to think I help do that.” She fiddles with the strap of her bag, sheepish to just… keep talking. “But I love the creativity of it too. The puzzle of figuring out what’s missing in a dish, or how to make a flavor sing. It’s fun. I needed fun, at the time.” Too much information, he doesn’t care, he just asked a simple question.

He listens, and as she speaks he can feel parts of his soul warm. She is passionate, she cares deeply about what she can create. He has always felt warmth in her cafe, in her presence. It was, undoubtedly, why he found himself drawn to her. He had let himself become so cold. “You are right.” He says, when she tails away. “It does make a difference to people.” He smiles again. This one is less fleeting. He can feel a strange ache in the muscles of his face that have fallen from use. “I’m glad I could repay that… and that you were not um… bored.” He gathers his things to carry back to his office, a thick folder of notes and wobbling films. “You live above the cafe, no?” He already knows she does, and chastises himself for that knowledge. *Creepy old man*, mutters the unkind internal voice. His office is rather plain though his desk is cluttered. There’s another of his long dead houseplants in the window, several crispy brown leaves on the floor. There are empty coffee cups clustered everywhere and a pinboard bearing several little memorandums and notes to himself. A very faded note in the corner, handwritten, says “Don’t forget to eat xx”

It wasn't exactly a secret, she'd probably called out to one of her staff she was popping upstairs to grab something at least a handful of times he was in the cafe. But that he'd cared enough to pay attention, and to remember? That was very interesting. "I do, yes. It's nothing fancy, but it's convenient, and the location can't get much better, can it? Plus, nothing beats a commute where you don't even have to go outside," she jokes. Her eyes scan over the office, curious for anything she can glean about this man that weighs his words so carefully. Books, everywhere. Messiness, worse than her own, which is impressive, notes and books and forgotten coffee cups littering the desk. Neglect. It's a sad sight, in truth. It reminds her of some of her worst days of depression and burnout. "Just me and Ros, though. Not room for much else." Somewhere in the back of her mind, her mother's warnings to never tell a man you'd be home alone echoes. But this is Dreuer. Besides, she'd asked Karlach to handle closing, the large tiefling would still be in the kitchen cleaning and locking up.

"Ros is your dog, yes?" He asks, abandoning his notes in exchange for his keys and phone (a very old flip phone. A burner phone? Or maybe just a reluctance to modernise. The latter is far more likely) and pulls his coat over his shoulders. "She's a very sweet dog. Very good at cleaning crumbs from the floor." He nods, a keen look in his eye as though he's got that little loaf's number. "I usually smell of cat, you see. I think she likes that." He plucks his umbrella from beside the door. "Can I um... walk you back? It's still raining I don't want you to get, you know. Wet and cold." It's just polite, right? Nothing more.

Shit, she knew she'd forgotten something. An umbrella? But honestly, she'd been so distracted it was a miracle she hadn't forgotten her coat. Still, her southerner was showing. Going outside in October without an umbrella or a raincoat was just begging to get soaked and chilled to the bone. "Ros does like cats," Laena agrees. "My Gran's always had cats, so she's used to the smell. And she's a better vacuum than most of my employees." She smiles weakly at her pretty lame joke. "But, um, sure? If you'd like? The cafe'll be closed up by now, though, so I can't really offer you much but the leftovers I was planning on having for dinner." Too honest. Too much information. What the fuck, Laena? Yes, you're a pathetic single who literally lives on top of her job, but you don't have to make it explicit.

He shows her out of the office, turning the light off behind him. The greyish glow of the streetlight makes everything look ethereal through the high window. The university is slowing down. People are leaving. Professor Dekarios waves from the other end of the hallway, and Dreuer manages a nod of acknowledgement before heading for the stairs. There are a few remaining students coalescing among the statues, but he tries not to pay too much attention to them. "How old is Ros?" He asks, and immediately self criticises his terrible choice of small talk.

"Hmm, she's four now. I got her just before I moved to Edinburgh. Terrible timing, honestly. I don't know if you've ever dealt with a puppy and a move at the same time, but it was hell. What about your cat?" She'd noticed the pet hair lingering on his clothes, grey and white as opposed to Ros' ginger and white, but hadn't had the opportunity to ask. "Or do you have more than one? What are their names?"

"Fluff. He is... I think thirteen." He muses. It's been a long time since they found that little critter underneath the house, frightened and shaking and wet. "We're not keeping it." "Don't be so horrible. He's terrified." "Hmh." "Dreuer." "What." "Don't be so grumpy, go and fill the sink with warm soapy water..." "I cannot believe you are keeping that stray." "I keep you don't I?" "... hmh..." He almost smiles again, moving to the bottom of the stairwell, his tail bumping over the snagged carpet behind him. "I used to have two, but now it is just me and him."

Just me and him. Another bit of evidence that could be in favor of her divorcee theory. Not that it matters. Because he's twice her age, and a regular customer, and barely even a proper acquaintance, and probably still married. "He sounds lovely." She was about to ask him to see a photo, but then remembers the glimpse of an anachronistic flip phone. If it had a camera, it would be very poor. "Tell me about him?"

"About..." The flash of memories that swarms his mind disconnects from the conversation, and for a second his heart catches in his throat. I don't want to talk about him... She's talking about the cat. He remembers. He blinks quickly, ashamed of his own internal foolishness. "Oh he's... grey." He frowns as they reach the door. He raises the umbrella and presses his vape to his lips. "And... rather dishevelled. And misanthropic." Like owner, like pet. "Not at all as friendly and sweet as your dog I'm afraid." ... like owner, like pet.

So he does vape. She doesn't mind it, especially because his doesn't seem to come with one of those offensively saccharine flavors. Pets do take after their owners, she's tempted to tease. "I've learned appearances can be deceiving. I'm sure he's a wonderful companion." Fucking hell, it is miserable out. She's huddling in her slightly-too-thin coat just waiting for the road to clear enough for them to pass. Of course there isn't a pedestrian crossing until down by Forrest Road, and neither of them were dealing with that right now, not when her cafe is almost exactly across the street. Of course the wind kicks up. Of course it brings with it a spray of icy cold rain. Of course a lorry passes, one wheel hitting an impressive puddle just so. Of course they're both soaked to the bone. Fuck my life. "What in the-?! What a bloody bastard!"

“Well… he tries his best you know but, age can make a creature more abrasive.” Is he talking about himself? Probably. He is unwilling to acknowledge it, though, as he holds his umbrella between them to spare them from the worst of the falling rain. He isn’t quite quick enough to drop it in time for the puddle, which rushes up and soaks his stomach and legs. He responds with an animalistic snarl, bearing his teeth in the wake of the truck as it whooshes off, around the corner. His heart is racing. Roaring in his chest as he watches the sixteen wheeler disappear. The fear… “… Shit.” He grunts out. He does his best to hide the terror that rose in his heart. Stoicism never fails to protect him and so it’s to stoicism he turns. “Are you alright? Aside from… very damp?”

"Ugh, very damp is one way to put it," she whines. "Fucking hell... I was going to invite you up for a cup of tea, but now it might be for a chance to dry off." The traffic thins for a moment, and without thinking about it, she grabs Dreuer's arm, more or less dragging him across the street. "Oh shit, sorry, I didn't mean to, uh, manhandle you or anything." The fact she manages to blush this furiously despite being soaked in disgusting, freezing water is pretty impressive. "Would you? Like to come in, I mean? I don't want you to catch a cold heading home." He doesn't need to know I overheard Halsin mentioning you live nearby. Because I shouldn't have overheard. Because eavesdropping is rude, and remembering information like that is borderline creepy, and fuck, what am I doing?

It’s for the best that he’s manouvred across the street. It drags his thought back to the now, to what is in front of him. Helaena. He laughs, a breathless sound as he looks back across the street. “I would, but I need to get back to the cat.” He tells himself it’s not an excuse. Well, it’s not entirely an excuse. Mt Fluffikins will yowl and squawk if his pilchards are delayed. He looks apologetic as he holds the umbrella over her and the doorway. She’s damp enough, he doesn’t want her to get wetter and colder. It’s the least he can do to keep the elements from chilling her to the bone. “But… I will see you in the morning yes?”

He laughed. Oh, she doesn't think she's ever heard that before. Would you stop it?! "On the condition you tell Fluff he's wonderful, and, I'm sure, not at all disheveled, but very handsome and majestic." Laena teases. "But yes, I'll see you tomorrow." The lure of her warm apartment with it's dry clothes and hot water calls, but she wants to linger, wants to stay in this moment. "Good night, Dreuer. And for the record, I'd be happy to come to any of your lectures."

He finds himself smiling again. He looks down at his shoes to spare himself from thinking about how his face feels warm. “You can come every Wednesday if you like. It will continue on. I just…” He looks back up at her. “… I appreciate how kind you have been to me.”

Every Wednesday. "You're very welcome. But I don't think being kind is too much to ask from someone. It's what I'd want from someone else, you know?" You're talking too much. "But, uh. Thank you. For letting me come. It was really, really interesting. Not turbid at all." With a last awkward little wave, she runs towards the safety of her flat. "Fuck," she mutters once safely inside the walkup, her heart pounding, her cheeks on fire. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck._"

He waits until she’s inside before walking away. He crosses the road again to begin his slow walk home, but not without looking up at the light in the windows of the flat above the shop. She’s safe. Good.

Dreuer is fifteen minutes late in getting home and Mr Fluffikins is distinctly unimpressed. His tail, puffed wide, shudders as he marches from the front door to the kitchen as it opens. His little stop soundtracked by the slightly out of tune crackle of Ride of the Valkyrie from Classic FM.

“Don’t judge me, I was being polite.” He grumbles to the cat, feeding him promptly before disappearing to his bathroom and stripping from his wet clothes. He squints at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. God what a state. He didn’t expect Helaena to ever like him in a way he might want, but that was rather a certainty with how dishevelled he was. His hair hung lank and wet around his neck. His eyes look hollow and tired. He sighs, pulling on his yellow checked pyjama bottoms and a grey t shirt before making himself a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. He reads for two hours, the low light of the room making him squint and giving him a headache. He half concentrates on the book and half loses himself in the labyrinthine thoughts that criss crossed his mind. He was an old fool, that was the conclusion of almost every pathway.

Well. It seemed as though Dreuer didn’t intend to go to bed without help. It was approaching midnight when Fluff decided to jump on his lap, in front of his book, and rub his face on the man’s scratchy chin.

“You made your point… come on.” He shuts his book with a sigh. Brushes his teeth. Vapes. Scowls at his reflection. Vapes. Curls up alone under his duvet…. And wakes up again tomorrow to do it all again. Every day was the same shade of grey, except for the glimpses of golden sunlight that Helaena offered… purely by being kind.

Days pass. October manages to get colder, and darker, and wetter. Dreuer visits the cafe almost every day, either for coffee in the mornings, or tea or lunch later in the day. If he stays for long enough, she tries to strike up a conversation. More and more often, she succeeds. He smiles twice more. Each feels like a victory. He also calls her Helaena, and doesn't protest when she calls him Dreuer. Then, Wednesday comes around again, and she's genuinely unsure whether to ask a member of staff to handle closing for her. Dreuer hasn't mentioned his invitation again. Perhaps he forgot. And she wouldn't want to push? It seems rude. Still, she's tapping her feet in anticipation as the morning rush begins, and the time nears when Dreuer usually arrives in search of his double shot americano, no milk, and she sometimes forces him to take something "for later, you need to eat damn you."

His mood lightens, day by day. He even manages a joke or two, at his own expense of course, and only with Helaena. It’s put him in a better mood than he’s been in in years, not that he would dare to admit it. If he admitted it, he’d be admitting that his feelings for her were real and… well… that was complicated. The hard frosts begin to set in, turning the fallen leaves a glittering silver as October pulls towards November. Christmas looms on the horizon and, perhaps, he isn’t dreading it as much as usual. He queues as he always does for his morning coffee. As is common, Halsin is soon close behind.

“Good morning Dreuer.” The elf offers brightly as he steps into the queue. He always dresses like a throwback from Dreuer’s childhood: huddled into an old donkey jacket with a thick homemade scarf around his neck. He’s like a transplant from the early eighties.

“Morning Halsin.” He offers, shuffling forwards as the queue moves. “Good weekend?”

Halsin’s smile is somewhat knowing. That’s the first time Dreuer has asked outright for a long time. He can tell that the tiefling is happier, and it doesn’t take a genius to know why. “A very fine one, thank you. If quiet. You?”

“Quiet… not quite as fine but not awful I suppose.” Dreuer steps forwards again as the queue moves.

“You’re looking well… new haircut?” It’s not a new haircut.

“Hmh… no. Eating better I suppose.” He shrugs.

Halsin grins. He doesn’t say anything again, as Dreuer reaches the front of the queue.

“Morning Helaena.” He says politely. “Double shot americano please, no milk… did you hear the storm last night?” His tail is a metronomic swish between his heels. He doesn’t much care about last night’s storm, but his stomach is fluttering at the sight of familiar, friendly blue eyes, and her endearing smile. You are a fool, Wildfel…. But not without reason.

"I did!" She's always loved storms, especially of the electric variety. Unless she has to be outside in them. "I was a bit disappointed, it was too foggy to really see the lightning from my apartment." She smiles at Halsin, just behind him. "The usual for you too, Halsin?" But it widens when Helaena turns back to Dreuer, genuinely excited. "I was wondering, if it's not too busy later, I might want to pick your brain about something? Or, uh, another day, if that works better." Don't assume he's coming back, Lae, you moron. "It's, uh... nothing with a deadline, or anything. Sorry."

Halsin nods, letting the two in front of him speak. It’s just nice to see, he has no intention of interrupting.

Dreuer looks up at Laena with a perk of his ears and a perk of his tail. “Of course.” He says, as if this should go without saying. “I will be back at lunchtime, if that is alright with you… if it is urgent I can talk now. You are still coming to this afternoon’s lecture, yes?”

Oh, he does want her to come to the lecture. God help her, she's grinning like a fool. "Yes, I am, I've been looking forward to it! Contemporary reception, right? How contemporary are we talking? Roughly 500 CE? Maybe 700?" she teases. "And, um, I'd love talk about it at lunch, I don't want to hold you up or anything, I know classes start at nine." Why do you know that?! "It's just, I picked up some of my old books after your lecture, and my ancient greek was never stellar, but it seems even my latin's gotten rusty, so I had a few questions, figured I'd ask the expert, right?" Talking too much again... "Sorry, I'll get your drinks going, give me just a second."

“500 CE is very late.” He teases back. He misses the look Halsin gives him from behind. He steps aside so those waiting behind can order. His tail swishes. “If you want to brush up on ancient languages then I know Professor Dekarios would be more than happy t-“

Halsin clears his throat.

“… or I could…. Yes I’d be happy to.” fuck fuck fuck fuck…

"Great! I'll grab my notes later, we can talk over lunch. Around lunch, I mean, not that we'd be-" She winces as Astarion pointedly clears his throat from the espresso machine. "I'm sorry, I have to go. Here, double shot americano, no milk, and an oatmilk chai latte." She hands the two professors their drink orders, but shoves a paper bag at Dreuer, too, containing a simple sourdough bread roll, with both sliced cheese, a package of butter, and a small pot of jam, because she wasn't 100% sure what he'd prefer. "I hope you have a nice morning." It's supposed to be aimed at them both, but she only remembers to look at Halsin a moment too late. "And, um... I'll see you later, Dreuer." She can't fully control her smile, but she knows it's far too warm and genuine for the situation, knows her cheeks are dimpling, knows Halsin absolutely has to realize what's going on. If she had a tail it would be wagging. God fucking damn it.

It’s getting so much easier to smile back at her. It doesn’t hurt any more.

They step onto the street, blessedly free of rain but battered still by blustering, cold northern winds. Halsin is chuckling, a familiar warmth in his stomach.

“And what is it exactly that entertains you so much this morning?” Dreuer murmurs, lifting his coffee cup to his face to blow into the little hole in the lid, feeling the warm air rush back against his face and the scent of coffee percolating his memories.

“She’s delightful isn’t she? Dear Laena.” He says with a warm, knowing little smile. They cross the road.

Dreuer frowns, his tail sinking between his ankles to keep out of the way of leaf litter and mould in the gutter. “Yes… she is also young enough to have her whole life ahead of her.” Dreuer’s response is terse. He has worked with Halsin for over a decade, their familiarity is mot misplaced.

“She seems smitten with you, you know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Dreuer grunts. The thought makes his heart leap, but the fear immediately swallows it. He breaks away from Halsin as quickly as he can to march towards his own building.

“He would never have wanted you to fade away like this!” Halsin calls after him.

He’s right. Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t make it sting any less. The paper bag has been ripped and pierced by tightly gripping claws by the time he makes it to his office. He sits in his chair. He organises his lecture notes. His lashes glitter with tears. A moment later he gains his composure. He has work to do, and an appointment to keep at lunchtime. Halsin is a fool, he tells himself. A fool with flights of fantasy that don’t apply to the real world. Dreuer is a 47 year old man with a chronic, persistent cough and a large, empty life that had been meant for two. That was no easy void for some fresh, eager, beautiful young thing to try and fill, nor would they want to.

It's another busy day, almost too busy for her mind to wander. Almost. Yes, there's some mortification, at being perceived by Halsin. Does he judge her? Pity her? He seemed more amused than anything, but he wouldn't condone this if he knew the depths of her folly. But mostly, there's excitement. It had been wonderful to crack open her old copies of Loeb, the pages upon pages of original latin or greek opposite from their translations greeting her like old friends. If she'd gravitated towards her old fondness for Sappho, well... the woman could write. And there was nothing wrong with some love poetry! Besides, what bisexual woman with respect for herself didn't enjoy a bit of sapphic poetry, especially from the long-dead lips of the woman who came to define the very term? Some say horsemen, some say warriors, Some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest Vision in this dark world, but I say it’s What you love. A beautiful thought. She's always had a weakness for fragment 16. Its mention of Helen of Troy was irrelevant.

He shudders, stepping in from the cold wind and shrugging off his coat. The sweater underneath is an argyle in various shades of grey, snagged around the neck where it’s been repeatedly caught on his horns. “Helaena?” He’s immediately looking for her. Under his arm is Collins Greek to English dictionary for Classics. He has at least come prepared (by which means he stole the book from Gale’s classroom when he wasn’t looking).

"Dreuer!"

Astarion snickers as his boss immediately drops what she's doing, off to nerd out with that taciturn classics professor again.

Jenevelle is smiling, but it's kinder than her coworker's. "We'll handle things, have fun!"

She glares daggers at Astarion as she shrugs off her apron and quickly preps a pot of tea with two cups and drops a few pieces of shortbread onto a plate. "Thank you, Jen. Don't let the place burn down, please." She smiles at ~~her~~ the professor as she spots the dictionary he's holding. "Shall we?"

“Of course.” Why was he smiling again? It was becoming embarrassing. He never smiles, and all this happiness is changing the shape of his face, he’s sure of it. “You don’t mind here, in the cafe? It won’t be too loud?” He asks, glancing around at the other patrons.

She frowns, considering it for a moment. There was a particularly rowdy table of undergrads not far from Dreuer's usual spot. "You know what, let's head upstairs. It's much quieter, and we'll have more room to spread out there, anyway. I think better working straight from a book, anyway." Yes, she'd copied out the translations she was curious about, and had tabs of poems in question open on her phone, but it wasn't the same as pen and paper. Don't think about being alone with him, Lae... Laena transfers the dishes to a tray and grabs her purse from the employee lockers. "Unless there's something else you'd prefer?"

“No, no that’s perfect.” He nods. “If you are happy to.” If he’s honest with himself he has wondered what the inside of her apartment looks like several times. He pictures it to be cosy, with an abundance of bookshelves and the same welcoming warmth as he shop. Would it be as he pictured? If he were to truly let his imagination wander, he would consider more, quiet evenings spent there. Just the two of them, a bottle of wine and Diogenes Laertius between them… You stupid old man, Dreuer. He shakes the ludicrous fantasy from his head, and ignores the strange feeling of sadness and guilt in his gut.

Helaena's apartment is much as you'd expect if you were to know her well. Everything in it has the appearance of being loved, and loved well, carefully chosen and well looked after. The first room, after a hallway leading towards the bathroom and kitchen, is a cosy sitting room, a sofa and an armchair sitting in front of a small, unlit fireplace. Seemingly every part of the walls not taken up by doors or windows are covered in bookshelves, the overflow littering the coffee table and sitting in small stacks. If you were to enter the kitchen, you'd see it well-used, a bit messy, and showing the effects of a lifestyle too busy to cook at home every day, as much as its owner may want to. Many a takeout container or dish from the cafe litter the space.

"Here we are!" She unlocks the door, and carefully pushes it open with her shoulder, her other hand still occupied with the tray. "It really is nothing fancy," Laena warns, slightly self-conscious. "But it's home, and it's quiet. And I know no one spilled coffee on the armchair an hour ago, so that's something."

It’s not far from what he imagined. The multitude of books makes his heart feel warm. His own home is similar, a labyrinth of read and unread piles of books. He looks around for the dog. He can never resist a dog. “Short commute.” He says, echoing her own comments from a few days ago. “You moved in four years ago yes?”

Ros comes trotting out of the bedroom, fluffy tail wagging furiously. She barks in her excitement, running around Dreuer's legs. He's a frequent sight in the cafe, yes, but he's in her home now, that must mean Mum likes him!

"Ros, please, calm down!" She blushes in mortification, rushing to set down her tray before grabbing Ros by her chubby middle to hold her back from bothering Dreuer. "I'm sorry, she's a bit... unused to new people visiting, I usually have the same cast of characters around." Her family, a small handful of friends, her employees... Hardly an illustrious list. "And yes, I've been here four years. I swear all the books actually lived in the shelves at one point," she jokes.

He reaches to pat the dog. How can you not want to pat the dog? “Oh don’t worry. It’s always nice when someone is pleased to see me. Hello Ros.” He says fondly. He can’t be drawn in by the dog. She didn’t invite him here to be friends, she invited him here to learn Greek. There could be no other conceivable reason, surely. “Oh, books migrate. Trust me.” He says, deadpan. “That’s how you end up with piles everywhere. It’s something supernatural.” His jokes are poor, and his lack of smiles often obscures the punchline.

Ros is in heaven. This new friend of her Mum is approved!

"Ros is, erm, enthusiastic? She can be a bit much, especially for people who don't like dogs very much. I love her more than anything, though. She's my best friend, really, she's always looking out for me." Laena runs a hand through her hair, which probably looks like a disaster. Fuck, why did she think this was a good idea? She always gets so self-conscious. There are reasons she stopped dating, and not all of them are her incompatibility with most of the people who'd want to date her. Not that this is a date! Or anything like it. The only type of date it could qualify as would be a study date. No different from a tutoring session or a study group, really. Apart from the fact the material she'd been reading is lesbian love poems, her tutor is a married acquaintance who is also a regular at her cafe, oh, and she maybe has a massive crush on him. This is fine. "Would you like to sit down? Fair warning, though, Ros might jump in your lap and demand pets."

“That is not such a bad thing.” He says, and sits where indicated. If he is jumped on, then so be it. He can occupy his claws with scratching at the dog instead of picking nervously at his nail beds. “So… Sappho?” He asks, nodding to the papers he can see in her hands, “One of the most beloved poets in the world. An excellent choice.”

Ros immediately accepts this clear invitation, and curls up with her head on Dreuer's thigh, her tail swaying gently back and forth as she luxuriates in attention from a different person than normal.

She rolls her eyes at her dog's predictable behavior, and sits down on the sliver of couch left after the space taken up by Ros' posterior. "I always had a weakness for lyric poetry. Sappho meant a lot to me, especially when I was, uh... well, still figuring myself out. Her work has a depth of feeling that survives even translation. "Ancient Greek was never my specialty, of course, my language studies were largely Latin, Arabic and a few Iberian languages, if no Basque, unfortunately, but... I learned a little, and I've been sad to see it rust away. "Beautiful poetry deserves to be appreciated in the language it was created for, don't you think?"

He smiles. “I believe so. You will have to forgive me, my command of the languages is not what it could be. I can read and write them well enough but…” He scratches at the scruff on his chin as he finds a blank page in his notebook. “Speaking… is not my strong point.” It’s an obvious truth, he spends his days in silence and his nights in a deeper silence still, unless he is called upon to teach.

Not his strong point her arse. Dreuer carefully and skillfully walked her through Fragment 16, one of her favorites, pointing out each place where translation was up to interpretation, or where the scholarly understanding had shifted over time. > Some say horsemen, some say warriors, > Some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest > Vision in this dark world, but I say it’s > What you love. > > It’s easy to make this clear to everyone, > Since Helen, she who outshone > All others in beauty, left > A fine husband, > > And headed for Troy > Without a thought for > Her daughter, her dear parents… > Led astray... > > And I recall Anaktoria, whose sweet step > Or that flicker of light on her face, > I’d rather see than Lydian chariots > Or the armed ranks of the hoplites. "It's beautiful in the original Greek," he says in his low, careful baritone. "But it was meant to be set to music, originally. It is a shame we have almost none of her work in full." Please never stop talking. "It's a beautiful thought, isn't it? Especially for a culture so seemingly obsessed with warfare, for a woman to say the dearest sight in the world, is, quite simply, the people you love. Even if the story of Helen, is, obviously, a tragedy."

She is a quick study. When she repeats the poetry he listens, watching her. She is so careful in her oration. True to the scansion of the text, steady and measured. It’s easy to be in her presence. It’s easy to hear her speak, and he was sure he could listen to it for as long as he lived. God what is wrong with him… “There is romance in tragedy.” He says. “In what comes before… and the memory of love never really fades.” He sits back, reading over the words again. “Virgil said it best. True love conquers all.”

True love conquers all. Christ on a fucking cracker, how was she supposed to handle this man casually quoting Virgil? Not. For. You. Laena had been tempted to ask for help with 31, too, but she wasn't sure she'd survive hearing his voice quietly explaining the reasons stanza 3 was often translated as such: > My tongue freezes. Fire, > Delicate fire, in the flesh. > Blind, stunned, the sound > Of thunder, in my ears. And that wasn't even necessarily the horniest part. Close enough to sip your voice's sweetness... "Sappho seems to agree. I'm not sure she's holding up Helen as a cautionary tale. More like someone who loved, deeply and truly, despite its consequences. I wish we knew who Anaktoria was. Sappho must have really loved her."

Dreuer’s smile is edged with tragedy as he turns the poetry in his hands. “Sappho understood what men have tried and failed to put into words for centuries hence.” He murmurs. “Only Shakespeare has come close.” Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break… He swallows. Curse the man. Curse Sappho, curse Shakespeare. They will be the death of him. “I think you are capable enough to read the poets’ words as intended. You… understand them, I think. The souls of poets.” Oh for god’s sake Dreuer… He clears his throat. “I need to return to my lectures, I’m afraid… but you are good. Do not lose heart.” He smiles again. “You are… still coming to the lecture, yes?”

"Of course, Dreuer. If your invitation still stands. I've been looking forward to it. I was quite tempted to try to get the notes of some of your students that have been able to follow the full lecture series, but that seemed dishonest." Now she can't occupy herself with poetry, Helaena is fumbling slightly. The tea is gone, the shortbread just a few crumbs on a plate, time gone before she knows what happened. It had been... so nice, to just spend time together. She enjoyed his company. Ros did too, and she'd snapped at the ankles of more than one prospective date. ... Not that Dreuer was a prospective date, she really needs to stop thinking of him that way. "I'll see you later, then? 3pm, same room as last time?"

“I can send you the notes, if you want.” He had in fact written a book on the entire subject. He makes a mental note to himself. “And the invitation is always there if you want to come to any of my lectures… you are always welcome. As a thank you, of course.” As a thank you. Not a romantic gesture. You stupid old bastard. “I will see you at three.” He nods. “Same room as last time.”

The tiefling takes his leave, looking back at the rooms above the cafe as he crosses the street. Just in case she was looking. In case he could wave. He disappears into his office to prepare. The cafe sees a few people pass through. It’s approaching party season and fliers are being dropped in the doorway. A halloween party at the weekend, at a bar called Blunt. Pre-bookings for christmas parties at The Ivy. A vintage christmas card sale at the Wildfel Gallery (a small art gallery in a back alley shop front in the old town). The Classics Department Christmas Carol concert, just across the street in just a few weeks time.

The fact that she finds reception studies interesting when communicated in Dreuer's calm, steady baritone should really be a sign of how utterly screwed she is. As should the fact that the handful of fliers Astarion had dropped off on the corner of the kitchen she sometimes used for admin work had immediately made her think of ~~her~~ the professor. Wildfel Gallery? Surely a coincidence. Or the spouse you'd prefer not to think of. Helaena wasn't much for a party, but if she wasn't careful, she might be dragged to at least one Halloween do. Astarion and Jen seemed to be of the opinion she was far too young to be this boring. The carols might be nice, though. It seemed there were some actual classics planned in there, instead of just mass market nonsense. And, well, Dreuer might be there. The three hour lecture passes in pleasant focus, ~~her~~ the professor's voice the perfect focal point to avoid getting overstimulated or distracted by the various ambient noise. He dismisses the students, as seems to be his habit busying himself with his materials instead of inviting conversation. Still, she was starting to understand Dreuer's taciturnity was less hostility than introversion, and perhaps a touch of shyness. The more she saw of the man he was when she could get him to speak, well... the more she liked him. It was a problem, really. "Thank you for the lecture, professor. It was a pleasure, as always."

He speaks steadily, of the praise of de Montaigne and criticisms of Hedel. For Dreuer, anything beyond the Christianisation of the Romans is contemporary, and he seems to view more recent philosophers with a far more skeptical eye. As before, a fair cohort of his students aren’t listening or are failing to engage. Again, there are those who (understandably) feel that in the falling light of the afternoon, under the dull drone of the Professor’s voice, sleep is impossible to resist. He once again busies himself at the end, avoiding any questions or further probing. The students, however, seem to only be keen to leave as quickly as possible, which suits him fine. It’s nice that Helaena stays. Any excuse to talk to her is becoming more and more appreciated. “Thank you.” He says softly. “Though the modern philosophers don’t quite as capture my attention as the orators of the old world.” He waits until the very last student has gone before he smiles at her. “I’m sorry if I came across as presumptuous earlier, I um…” He frowns, and presses his vape to his lips before remembering that he’d already been sent a written warning for vaping indoors. “… you are very good. You know there are linguists in this department who would be far better to help you, I am… I am not as good as I would like to think I am.”

”Why would you have come across as presumptive? I asked you for help, and you gave it, with short notice, and using up your lunch break to do so. “And given that my knowledge of Ancient Greek is, at best, rusty, and at worst, barely there in the first place, I feel that, well… I worry I wasted your considerable expertise. “You may not be a linguist, but I know you. I trust you. I’d like to think of you as a friend. But thank you, truly. You did me a huge favor, Dreuer, and I appreciate it, I do. “But I promise I won’t bother you with my questions again, if that’s, um. If that’s why you’d prefer I contact another member of the faculty. It’s not your responsibility to teach me in your free time, obviously.” Helaena wrings her hands, a bit nervously. Fuck, now she feels like an asshole. A presumptive, entitled git making the poor man spend his lunch break tutoring some washed out half-baked academic who hadn’t studied Greek since undergrad.

He feels something constrict his throat. Twist uncomfortably in his stomach. “No… no I was not trying to run away from you, Helaena, I was… merely suggesting that you are greater in talent than I am able to support but…” You are too good for me… “… I understand that you want someone um… familiar. That you are friends with.” It felt strange to say. He had friends, of course he did, but he hadn’t spoken to those outside of work for a long, long time. “It’s a pleasure to be invited, but, I do not want you to be held back my my own ineptitude.” You are so much better than I deserve.

Friends. Be happy you get to have that much. "I enjoy learning. Teaching and being taught. I, hmm. It's a big part of why I initially chose the education I did. I enjoy listening to your lectures, and I enjoyed reading poetry with you. If you'd like, I'd love to do it again. Sappho, or, well, almost anything, really." Maybe she could teach him something, for once. There was beauty and wisdom to be found in her focuses of study, too. "But there is no world where you are inept in teaching a field you've spent a significant portion of your life studying, Doctor Wildfel. Especially not when the subject matter is classics you are far more well-versed in than I am." Of course she'd seen the ph.d on his office door. Of course she'd noticed the framed diplomas hung behind his desk, as with any academic worth their salt, the glass coated in a thin layer of dust. "But if I take up your lunch hour again, remind me to feed you properly, at least. I've noticed how many meals you skip, it's not healthy." It's just friendly concern. Not one of her friends hasn't accused her of mothering them, at one time or another. That's definitely why her eyes linger on the way his habitual sweaters hug his slender form. Concern.

He smiles. At least she has confidence in him - maybe she can play host to the confidence he himself lacks. It is not her job to pick up your mess you old fool. “I… yes well, I am a terrible cook.” He says, a little sheepishly. “And prone to distraction almost terminally-“ There’s a knock at the door.

Halsin doesn’t wait for an invitation before entering. He learned years ago that Dreuer is far more likely to snap back with a waspish “go away” than a companionable welcome. “Oh-… forgive me Laena I didn’t know you were here.” He says, and his smile brightens.

"Good thing you have me, then." That... was not meant to be said out loud. Helaena's blushing even before Halsin announces his arrival. "Halsin," she half-squeaks, resisting the urge to hide behind Dreuer as if that would help. "Hello. I was, uh... just leaving?" She doesn't want to, though. She wants to linger, and ask if Dreuer wants to grab a quick bite, or take Ros for a walk, or talk about the use of religious and mythological imagery in poetry, or just... be together. But Halsin's presence has burst her bubble, her pleasant little illusion that she isn't doing anything wrong, that she's not crushing hopelessly on a married man. He's just my friend. I'm just going to his lectures. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. She almost believes it. "I, uh... I'm sorry, I'll leave the two of you to talk."

“There’s-“

“- no need.” They both say it at the same time. Halsin chuckles. “I’m not intruding on your studies, either of you. Just wanted to ask Dreuer a quick question.”

Dreuer nods. “Go on.”

Halsin smiles. Again, his eyes are tinged with a fondness and sympathy reserved for this sorry professor. “Willow at the gallery wanted to know if you were coming to the christmas c-“

“No thank you.” He interrupts. His expression falls

Halsin heaves a sigh. It’s an old argument, but not one he’s going to push. Not with Laena here. “If you’re sure. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Have a good evening, both of you. Don’t do anything I would not.” He smiles at Laena knowingly before closing the door behind him.

Dreuer scowls at the door. “… there’s very little he would not do, I’m sure.” He mumbles.

Helaena snorts despite herself. Halsin's reputation had extended across Teviot Place, even if she hadn't caught him and Jen making eyes at each other more than once. She takes a moment to gather her courage, knowing if she doesn't ask now, she never will. "Dreuer, I was wondering... The gallery Halsin was referring to... Would that be the Wildfel Gallery? I got an advertisement from them, I thought there might be a connection?" Her shoes are very interesting. Black leather boots, a bit scuffed at the toes, worn-soft heels, gel insoles to keep her feet from screaming by the end of the day. Much better to look at her shoes than Dreuer's face. "I know it's not my place to pry. I'm sorry."

He feels the familiar choking cold rising in his throat. For a moment he almost feels as though, if he were to turn around, a different reflection might stare back at him. He never spoke about him. It way always other people who brought him up. He let it fester, uncomfortable and sickening in his chest. “Yes… it’s not a particularly common name I suppose.” He says. An understatement. He ruffles fingers through his hair and adjusts some nondescript papers in his desk. “It’s named after my husband. My um…” He frowns. His tail disappears, curling around his own ankle. “… my late husband.”

My late husband. Rarely has Helaena felt such a horrific swirl of conflicting emotion. You shouldn't feel relieved, you utter fiend. She feels terrible for him, of course. Losing a clearly beloved spouse... Well, it explained a lot. Wait, husband?! What if he's- oh for fuck's sake, Laena, don't think about if the man is interested in woman right now! "I'm so sorry, Dreuer." There's not much else to say, is there? I'm sorry for your loss. She hadn't lost a spouse, or anything close to it, but she hadn't appreciated the platitudes much each time she'd mourned. "I shouldn't have... I'm sorry. Truly. I'll stop prying."

“It’s alright.” He waves a hand. A good attempt at ambivalence. Inside it eats at him. That snarling void he refuses to confront. “It was five years ago. It’s not a fresh wound.” Yes it is. Because he has left it open, let it fester. It’s sickened him, isolated him. Turned him against the world… and he knows it. But what else could there possibly be for him? Helaena, perhaps? What an awful thing to think. The memory remains seared into his mind. It screams at him like white noise. The knock at the door at three minutes to three in the morning, about half an hour before he had been due to arrive home. He had ignored it at first. But then there was the knock again. “If you are waking me up because you have forgotten your key, Schön, then I would be within my right to make you sleep in your-“ He opens the door. There are two police officers waiting on the other side. “… car.” He shakes his head. He doesn’t need to remember it. He doesn’t want to remember it. “Anyway… can I… walk you home?”

Five years ago. "Even old wounds can pain you. It doesn't have to be alright, Dreuer." Her usual smile around ~~her~~ the professor has faded into a sad, flat line of her lips, almost a pout. Her eyes are filled with empathy, and no small amount of sadness of her own. [It's the Cresswell puppy eyes, but sad, not pleading. Look what you did, Dreuer, you made her sad!] "But yes, I... If you'd like. I wouldn't want to impose, if you're not feeling up for it, but... Yes, I'd like that." Helaena's not going to push, not tonight. She wouldn't dream of it. She still feels like a monster for prying, for bringing up what are clearly painful memories, for hurting someone she would dearly like to at the very least be her friend. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

It’s such a foolish thing. Five years, five long, dark and isolated years, slowly cutting himself off from everyone. She is the first to see beyond his self imposed veil, to see that there’s someone inside worth spending time with. She makes him feel… well… she makes him *feel*. That is worth so much. “Please… I am not upset.” He says calmly, holding up his hands. “I just… I do not often talk about it. It makes everyone else sad.” And I cannot bear to feel the insincere pity. The tragic glances, the pouting mockery of heartbreak. “And you are never an imposition, Helaena, I am very glad of your company.” He lets himself smile. A part of him says he shouldn’t, not now that she can see his wounds, but another, much louder part of him is relieved. It’s said now, it’s open. Ugly it may be but at least it might have a chance to heal.

Yeah no shit it makes everyone else sad. You lost your husband. You're allowed to be sad about it. "Dreuer, I..." Helaena squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. "Thank you. I greatly enjoy your company, so it's nice to hear the sentiment is returned." He looks... relieved. Sad, yes, but lighter, too. Almost as if he's glad I know. She has to consciously suppress a very British urge to ask him if he'd like a cup of tea. Tea won't fix this. "I'd, uh..." Would you like to have dinner? Would you like to come up for a cup of tea and some light panic over Sappho? Perhaps a nightcap? "I'm ready to go whenever you are."

He feels oddly compelled to touch her. Pat her shoulder? No, that’s oddly paternal. He doesn’t want to be bracketed as a father figure, how embarrassing. A hug? Good lord no, that’s how you end up at a workplace tribunal for inappropriate behaviour. He decides not to, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. “Alright. I don’t want to keep you any later.” She’ll likely be hungry. Maybe she is meeting friends. She might have a date, who knows. People in their twenties have adventures and live wild and free lives. Fat chance of that with Dreuer. He shuts off the light in the office, once again leaving that strange ethereal glow from the streetlight. “Do you have plans for this weekend? Halloween, no?” He asks curiously. His tail starts to swish between his heels again.

Ugh, don't remind me. "Yes, I do, unfortunately. My friends usually insist on dragging me out. I go, on the condition I can do an incredibly nerdy costume, and they have to listen to me explain it. So if I have to go out on a random Saturday in October, I can at least do it dressed as Eleanor of Aquitaine and spent half the night talking about the Angevin Empire." That had been a fun costume. The headdress had been a bitch, though. "I guess you can take a girl out of the history department but not the history department out of the girl, right?" Helaena had gotten her share of odd looks over the years, but fuck it. She had fun assembling or crafting the costumes, and she'd learned to cherish such joy even if her surroundings didn't share in them. If she got a kick out of going out dressed Isabela the Catholic, anyone who minded could kiss her ass. "What about you? If you're going to say curling up with a book, a good glass of wine and your cat, I might cry from envy," she jokes.

He almost laughs at her obvious disdain. She’s right to want to stay in her preferred niche, it suits her. “And why ever would you want to?” He smiles, as they head down the stairs. “What is it this year? Æthelflæd? Isabella de Castille?” He pulls up the collar of his coat. The winter wind is biting, and even at such an early hour of the evening, the street is beginning to shimmer with a premature frost. “I hate to distress you, but that is most likely what I shall be doing. Parties are not much my thing.”

"Trade places? I think you'd make a very fetching Ætheflæd," Helaena quips. "But no, I actually haven't done The Lady of the Mercians, I should put her on my list. I did do Isabela, though, a few years ago. Jen and Aly were very disappointed in the historically accurate neckline-" Don't talk about your tits, Laena, what the fuck? "But, uh, I'm doing something slightly different this year. Mythology, instead of history proper. Should be fun. I'm just glad the party's indoors, grecian dresses aren't exactly designed for Scottish autumns."

Grecian? From a medievalist? Was that his influence? Was it creepy to hope, somehow, he had aided in that decision? What a joy. “I’m sure you will look wonderful. You always do.” Fuck. Pretend you didn’t say that. He occupies himself in crossing the road, once again stopping just outside the cafe doors.

She blushes furiously. Oh god, that compliment would be living rent free in her head for a while. I’m sure you will look wonderful. You always do. Fuck. Help. He's not married and he's still saying things like that. "Um, thank you. I hope so. It's just a fancy chiton, really, I was in a bit of a rush, but, um... It should look nice. Hopefully. When it's done." Unless my hair decides to choose violence. They stop in front of the doors of the cafe, lying dark and silent. Astarion was an efficient closer. Keen to get home, most like. "I'll, uh... See you soon then, I hope?"

“Oh don’t you worry… I remember from being a student how quickly a bedsheet can become a himation.” On the rare occasion his friends dragged him to socialise, of course. As before he crosses Teviot Place with her, knowing he would need to turn around and walk the other way again. “I hope so. Thank you for coming to my lectures, Helaena.”

She considers touching his arm, or perhaps his hand, to tell him... what? She was happy she didn't have to feel awful about finding him attractive? "You're very welcome, Dreuer. Thank you for inviting me." Helaena smiles, waves goodbye in a very awkward manner, and runs away.

A few days pass, the habitual late-autumn chill settling in, as most mornings have at least a thin coating of frost on windows and puddles of rain. Winter is on its way.

The Saturday before Halloween is exactly the sort of day she'd prefer to spend snuggled up in a cosy sweater with a good book and a cup of tea, Ros wedged up against her side and snoring steadily. Instead, she has to leave the cafe after the brunch rush, not to take a much-desired nap, but instead to put the final touches on her chiton and start a process of outright warfare against her hair. Helen of Troy wouldn't have frizz. Ros barks in agreement. Or perhaps she's mad at the hairdryer. Could be either one.

Something feels different, each time he speaks to Helaena. She knows now. Knows what hurts him. It takes away some of the discomfort. It feels better. It’s nice. He gets his coffee every morning on his way into the faculty. He is brighter, more receptive. Almost awake, for the first time in years. Tentatively opening his eyes after a long, long sleep. He has gathered (from around his flat and study) a few books that have been gathering dust. Some are new, some are very old. He places them into an old canvas bag bearing the logo of a local piano tuning and antique furniture company, and carries them across the street to the cafe. The door beside the cafe that leads up to Helaena’s apartment is more attractive to him, rather than heading in and seeking her behind the counter. He had a vague recollection that she would not be working today. He knocks on the door of the apartment instead, and his heart immediately twists with the brief flash of excitement that came from knowing he would see her.

She's still in her chiton after the final fit check, her hair for once mostly behaving as she wound it into a chignon. Helen of Troy would not suffer from horrific frizz, it seemed. Helaena frowns as she hears a knock on the door. She hadn't been expecting anyone.

The excited yapping of a small dog is audible through the door. "No, Ros, _calm down!_" Bark bark! "It's just the post or Jen who needs something, god, I can't take you anywhere." Whine... "Oh stop it, you know I love you."

Helaena opens the door in a rush of violet linen and slightly damp curls, a few golden pins still in her hand. Her eyes widen as she sees not a postman, not Jen, not even Karlach or Astarion, but Dreuer. "Oh, bollocks," she swears without thinking, then immediately covers her mouth, mortified at her potty mouth slipping out. "Crap, I didn't know you were coming, I would have, erm..." _Worn real clothes_? "Put the kettle on?"

He’s confronted with the subject of his daydreams. That’s… Unexpected. Beautiful. A little inconvenient. When she swears he can’t help but laugh, it’s the perfect way to fracture the momentary shock and awkwardness. “No, no it’s alright I um…” he frowns, looking down at his books. “I didn’t plan to stay, I know you said you were busy today I just wanted to…” He looks up at her again. God. She’s perfect. “… I wanted to bring you these. To help you with your languages and… if you wanted to learn more about my lectures. I won’t be offended if you don’t read then so do not worry.”

She shouldn't be disappointed he wasn't planning on staying. She really shouldn't. Besides, she has a number of other things to do before Jen starts to bug her about getting going for this stupid party she couldn't care less about. The prospect of staying in, having a takeaway, and maybe getting to discuss poetry with Dreuer again is far more enticing. Or ancient greek philosophy. She isn't fussed on the details as long as it involved ~~her~~ the professor, her couch and maybe a glass of wine. "Dreuer, there's no book you could give me that I wouldn't read." Books are one of her favorite things in the world. One chosen by a friend is that much more precious. Helaena clears her throat, trying to clear some of the awkwardness. "So, uh, what's the verdict on the costume? Historically accurate or as close to it as can be managed?" She lifts her arms and does a small twirl. "Not that the historicity of the Iliad isn't at best an open question, but Helen of Troy wouldn't have let that stop her, I don't think."

“Well it’s uh…” You’re allowed to look at her. She has invited you to look at her, Dreuer. He takes her in, from her feet to her shoulders, the way the fabric falls so gracefully around her frame. “It’s rather perfect… I would say. Helen would be proud of Helaena.”

She smiles like an idiot, in a very undignified manner. Helen would be appalled. "Thank you, Dreuer. And, um..." Helaena accepts the canvas bag of books, deadly curious as to what he might have chosen for her to read. "Thank you for this, too. I'll get them back to you as soon as I've read them, I promise." A brilliant, terrible idea comes to her in a flash. "Would you, um... Would you want to come in and tell me about them? It's just me and Ros, but the flat's a bit of a mess, I've been sewing," she warns. "I could actually put the kettle on," she jokes weakly.

A hot rush of embarrassment strikes him, clamouring up his face. He feels it burn his cheeks and hopes beyond all hope that he isn’t outwardly blushing. “Oh… I won’t today but you’re kind to invite me. I wrote you a note to go with the books.” And I will be mortified if you read it in front of me. “I should get going, you know I have left Fluff…” He makes his usual excuse, looking back over his shoulder as if expecting the cat to be there, impatient. “But you look…” He stalls. He owes her honesty, not his curtailed attitude. “… you look very beautiful. You’re talented, to make such things.” He gestures to her attire, and feels the heat of embarrassment in his face again.

3

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Steffi 🍄 [Tavs:Mushroom Mob]

.mushrooming

Ell (Tav: Rosie and Co.)

polarized2023

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Beautiful. Talented. How is her poor heart meant to handle him saying things like that, almost bashful, but so sincere she can't stand it. Rather perfect. You always look wonderful. Far greater in talent than I am able to support. Each compliment hurts in the best possible way, but the sweet ache has a tinge of hope to it, now. Maybe he means all of them. Maybe he enjoys spending time together as much as I do. Maybe this isn't as hopeless as I thought. "Okay. I hope I'll see you Monday, then, at least?" She rarely saw Dreuer on the weekends. The part of her heart she fears is beginning to belong to him misses him, even if it's just a few days. "I've been sewing since I was just a girl. Just little things, but... It's fun, and you can save a lot of money repairing or altering things..." Babbling again. "But uh, if anyone asks, I'll tell them my costume was approved by an expert," she jokes. "Thank you, again, for... everything. The books, and the lectures, and being my friend, and just... being you. Truly."

He wasn’t sure if anyone had thanked him just for existing before. Not like this. He smiles with a certain measure of meekness reserved for when people try and compliment him. “Thank you. I shall certainly see you Monday and um…” There’s a glint in his eye now. A spark of something that could almost be described as mischief. “Enjoy your party.” He knows where she would rather be. It’s a quiet tease, but he can’t help himself.

Her eyes narrow in playful offense. "You don't have to rub it in, Dreuer. I tried to tell Jen I had a date with my couch and ibn Fadlan, but apparently men who've been dead for over a millennium don't count as adequate romantic partners. Which is bullshit, if you ask me." Do you like travelogues? Or do you prefer your philosophies? Ugh, what I wouldn't give to spend the night talking about books with you, instead. The strength of the thought almost bowls her over. God, she's screwed. "But yeah, um... Monday. I'll let you know what I think about the first couple of the books, probably." She tended to read fast when she was absorbed. Besides, she had most of the next day off. Another part of the exchange to make her go to this party. If only she wasn't too scared of water damage to read in the tub, that would be a fantastic way to spend her Sunday.

“Oh there is far more romance in the ancients than can be found at some costume party.” His voice drops as he says it, an intentional purr to his words. He steps back, away from the doorstep, and can’t help but feel brighter for the mischief and the flirting. God it’s been years since he allowed himself a chance to just… play. “I will see you on Monday morning, you can tell me how enthralling the party is.”

inside the canvas bag, the stack of books at first appears unassuming. The volume on the top is a recent reprint of Greek to Latin to English translations of some more well known parts of the Iliad and Metamorphoses. There is a note tucked inside the first page. Beneath, a newish book that looks completely unread, though has the kind of fading on the front cover that one would expect from a book left in a window too long. Diogenes Laertius - A Novel Approach By Professor Dreuer Wildfel. The book he recommends to his students. The book his lectures are based on. Underneath are two more books, far more interesting in their presentation. They look to be at least one hundred years old, bound in smart green leather with gold leaf embossed detail. The first is ”Sappho - Transltions” - and it looks to have been kept in immaculate condition. The poems and fragments inside are written in English. The second book is near identical. “Σαπφώ” Everything within is in Ancient Greek, though in the same order and same place in the book. The note left in the front of the first book reads as follows:

“Dear Helaena, I thought these books may be of more use to you than they are to me. I am touched that you are so interested in my work, and hope that your love of the Ancient Times is never cut from you. Please give them a good home - they have done little but gather dust in my flat for some time. I know you will take great care of them. As you do all things. Yours, Dreuer.”

1

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

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Oh. Oh.

 Yours, Dreuer.

 She's still blushing and breathing a little too hard by the time Jen comes up to change into her own costume.

”Did I spot the tail of a certain Classics professor skulking up here, or am I imagining things?" she teases, looking curious at the very flustered state of her friend.

”… I think he flirted with me? Like, actual flirting?!" It's the first thing she's said in about an hour. "Like holy fucking shit, Jen, he is..." Helaena whines softly and has to resist the urge to tug at her carefully coiffed hair.

She decides to take mercy on her friend and not pry. Too much. "Fair warning, I'll get the full story out of you after two drinks. C'mon, hand over that eyeliner, you know your hands shake too much for it, especially when you're in a state like this."

”Jen, you are a literal godsend."

The half elf grins as she wields the liquid liner like some might a sword. "Oh, I know, don't worry."

Monday dawns clear, bright and crisp, Edinburgh in fall for once showing itself from its best side.

She wakes up happy, fully recovered from Sunday's hangover, and absolutely not just a little chipper at the thought of seeing Dreuer today, nope. Fuck, his voice shouldn't be allowed to do that, Helaena thinks for the millionth time. If she'd been fond of the calm, steady diction of his lecturing, or the low, careful intimacy of his voice in private conversations... If he reads Sappho in that voice I might actually die.

"You're looking suspiciously bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today, my dear." Astarion, on the other hand, looks like he would have preferred to stay in bed. He usually does on Monday mornings.

"Kiss my ass, Star," she fires back without missing a beat, but she's grinning broadly as she does.

He doesn’t think much about his note. His weekend is gentle. He reads, he feeds the cat, he takes a walk in the park. The phone rings: he doesn’t answer it. It feels nice to find the books for Helaena. It gives him a little boot up the backside to sort some of his apartment out. He changes his sheets and manages to get some laundry pushed through. He draws the line at vacuuming or dusting. By Monday morning he feels lighter. He fidgets with his wedding ring as he walks to work I think you would like her. At least… he hopes he would. He’s in a pleasant mood when he makes it to the cafe, looking up at the little friendly jingle of the bell.

She looks up from a tray of pastries, smiling widely at the sight of ~~her~~ the professor. "Dreuer! You're early this morning." He'd actually beaten the worst of the morning rush, she'd only flipped the sign on the door to open five minutes prior. "It's, uh... It's nice to see you." He looks almost happy. It's just the weather. Or he had a nice weekend. Don't be an idiot. "How was your weekend? I'll freely admit I spent most of Sunday cuddling my dog, but maybe you got up to something more interesting," she jokes. She had. She'd also had her head buried in A Novel Approach for most of it. Unsurprisingly, Dreuer's mind was just as sharp in text as in person, if not more so.

“That sounds like a good enough way to spend a weekend.” He says with a grunt, and a small smile. “I must admit, I did much the same. As little as possible for as long as possible… double shot americano, no milk please.” He wonders why he still says it. Surely she knows… though similarly… why would she care to know? “How was the party? I imagine your delightful costume turned a few heads.” If she says she met someone, behave. Don’t have a tantrum. The voice sneaking into his thoughts more recently was much more gentle in its chastisement. Much kinder. She had listened, and he felt better for it.

She can't help but snort rather indelicately as she moves to the espresso machine and starts fiddling with knobs and dials. "If by turn heads you mean three different idiots asked if I was Aphrodite, then sure." By the end of the night, she'd slightly regretted the more... exposed nature of the costume. Apparently her chiton was close enough to the bedsheet togas of some of the uni students several men her own age or younger felt inclined to approach. For once, Jen hadn't pushed her to socialize or flirt, even with a few guys that seemed like genuinely decent people. That took the pressure off, and allowed her to just enjoy the conversations or withdraw from them when they stopped being enjoyable. Still, she'd been exhausted when she finally removed her historically accurate but very cold sandals and flopped facefirst into bed, almost landing on top of a contentedly snoring Ros. "But it was fun, I suppose? I just... I don't know, I don't feel the need to party, much. I'd rather host a movie night or go out for dinner with a few friends. I mostly enjoy making my costumes."

He listens as she recounts her evening. His tail swishes idly between his heels. “At least they got the right civilisation, that’s the best you can hope for sometimes.” Dreuer lives in perpetual despair at the state of education globally. It’s a problem. “I am glad you had fun. You are young, this is the tome to be going to parties, no?” Please say no please say no…

"Oh no, I think at least five more assumed it was a toga. Like, honestly... It doesn't even have a shoulder drape," Helaena complains. "But yeah, I... it was fun, but I would have had more fun with just my friends." She shrugs. "I'm too introverted for large parties. Too sound sensitive, too. The cafe's almost too much some days, but... "Well, my point is your idea of a nice weekend sounds much more to my liking. I've always been boring. What's the nice term for it? Old soul?" God, Laena, you're such a grandma. Lae, please, you don't have to mother everyone all the time. Don't you ever regret missing out on so much of your youth? I'm just me, she wants to fire back. Why is that wrong? "I prefer the company of Homer or ibn Fadlan to some young buck who couldn't tell me what a platonic ideal is."

“You and I both.” He says before he can even think. “Or Sappho of course.” Why did he feel the need to throw a feminine voice in there? What point was he making? You know what you’re doing you fool. “Well… hopefully the books can tide you over for a few nights.” I’ll keep you company. I’ll read Homer with you. “That being said… it’s the carol concert in a few weeks. The end of November, before the students go home for Christmas. Would you… like to come?” Oh Dreuer. “I understand of course if you want to remain home, warm and contented with your books but… I-… I would be glad of a fellow introvert to keep me company”

The carol concert. The flyer had almost been forgotten in her curiosity about the Wildfel Gallery, and then the rush to get her costume ready and the cafe set for the holidays. Was he... asking her out? No way. "Oh! I'd love to go with you. I'll have to double check the date, but I can ask Jen or Karlach to close, that's not... But yes, I'd love to. I'd like that." Don't get your hopes up, don't get your hopes up- "I, um. I got through about half of A Novel Approach. Yesterday, after I felt sorry for myself about having solidly reached the age where I cannot escape a hangover with excess drinking for a few hours." Rambling. Again. "Anyway, I... I'd like to discuss it with you, sometime. When you've got the time. Obviously. I'm curious about a few of your conclusions, and I know how academic publishing can be, I'm sure you've got piles of material that didn't make it into the book."

She had read it. She actually read it, and hadn’t found herself falling asleep by chapter 2. At least… that’s how it seemed. “Oh? You’re… okay.” He nods. No one ever seemed curious like this. Even his keenest students. She must like you. The kinder voice is back. “I’m free this afternoon if you have the time, I do not want to keep you from your work.” He gestures through to the kitchen. He knows she loves her cooking, he wouldn’t want to distract her. And if he was honest, a small selfish part of himself liked it when she cooked instead of the others. She was far better at it.

She winces. Perhaps she's been begging off to chat with ~~her~~ the professor a bit too often. "Yeah, that's probably for the best. The lunch rush should be over by around two, so I won't be too busy anytime between then and closing. So, um. Whenever suits you." But who's going to feed you lunch if I don't? "But on one condition." Helaena raises a finger in a mock stern warning. "I don't care what, or where you get it from, but you should really eat something before this afternoon. We can't have you wasting away, can we?"

It makes something in his heart flutter. A memory of affection that he had closed himself off from. She cared enough to think of his hunger. So, at least she didn’t purely see him as a free educational resource. Not that it mattered, he enjoyed her company regardless. “I’ll eat, I promise. I don’t want to be in trouble.” He almost grins. It’s a shadow of a smile. “I’ll see you this afternoon, yes?”

"You best do, professor." She narrows her eyes in a mostly-joking warning, but drops the pretense with a ridiculous little snort a moment later. "And yes, I, uh... I'll be looking forward to it." Helaena hands him his coffee, a bit reluctantly. No amount of Dreuer feels like enough, these days, which is... problematic. But she doesn't care much, anymore. He's not married. He called me beautiful. Maybe it's okay to just... see what happens. "I hope you have a nice day until then, Dreuer."

His tail flicks back and forth behind him, like the keen tail of a hunting cat. It’s been a while since it did that. “I’ll see you. Well fed, and well behaved.” He dips his head respectfully before making his exit. It feels… strange. A lightness in his heart that has lifted the ever present weight of grief, and helped to carry it. His morning tutorial is pleasant enough, and he reviews his papers before lunch with the radio on, which has become unusual for him. Silence had become his only bed fellow and he carried it everywhere. He eats, as he promised Helaena he would. The university canteen has nothing on her, however. He makes a mental note to tell her this. He manages to avoid Halsin on his way back to his office, swerving the man’s smug smile and knowing little laugh as he gathers his coat and some additional books and notes, before sweeping like an irregular sized bat back across Teviot place, sidestepping the puddles that reflected glittering sunlight up at his heels and tail. He lets himself into the cafe, the chime of the bell comforting as he looks around. He would rather check here first than assume she would be home, and go knocking on the door upsetting Ros.

Ros and Laena's heads lift and turn at almost exactly the same time as the doorbell chimes, the corgi rushing forward to greet one of her new favorite people.

"Ros, please, let the man breathe," she admonishes, but with no real heat. Ros knows not to bother the customers who don't know her, but Dreuer has moved firmly into the category of "friend" and as such will now be ambushed for belly rubs on the regular. "Hello, Dreuer. Your timing's perfect, I just got a batch of shortbread out of the oven." Not to presume anything, but... Well, the shortbread she gave him alway tended to disappear.

The tips of his pointed ears visibly perk from underneath his salt and pepper hair. “You made shortbread?” He enquires, kneeling and placing his notes on the ground so as to properly fuss Ros. “Hello my friend.” He crows, ruffling her rolly sides, giving her loafy tummy a good scratch. “I did eat… like you said.” He looks up.

The dog's tongue lolls happily as she's treated as she's deserves. This Dreuer is a good one. He makes her mother happy, too.

"I did! Lemon, cardamom, plain with pearl sugar, aaaand... ah, what was the last one... chocolate? Probably chocolate." Or maybe hazelnut. Oh well. "And I'm glad! I'm sorry if I've been nagging you, but... I worry. I can be bad about skipping meals too, so... I get it. Working around food helps, I can always steal a snack," she jokes. "How was your morning? More peaceful than mine, I hope? I swear, this time of year, everyone decides to leave the house at the last possible minute, and then makes it our problem if there's a line and they're late," Helaena grumbles. The morning rush had been less than pleasant, but Dreuer's presence had a way of lightening her mood in a moment. It's too fast, you care too much. It'll be fine. I'm not stupid. It won't kill me if he doesn't feel the same way. Probably.

“hmh… it was productive.” He says, honestly. “But I am grateful for an afternoon in better company than my own.” He smiles, standing up with only minor complaint from his knees, scooping up his papers. “Are you happy to study in here?” It’s not too busy, and his corner table is blessedly free. “I can come to you if not, it is… no problem. For you I am flexible.” Don’t say that it’s creepy.

She glances over to the table she's been subtly keeping free since the lunch rush passed. But they would have more space and privacy in her apartment... Don't move too fast, girl. "Whichever you'd prefer? Either way, I'll get a pot of tea going. Would you like some shortbread, or are we still pretending you don't have a sweet tooth?" Helaena teases. She... really likes how much Dreuer seems to enjoy her cooking, whether it's something as simple as a piece of shortbread, or one of her more complex offerings at lunch. It makes her feel as if her efforts are appreciated, as if someone _cares_. As if she makes a difference. And if she's been resisting the urge to ask what his favorite dish is for weeks, well... he is one of her most frequent lunch customers!

“Can we stay here? I miss my usual spot.” He says, looking over at the window. He also doesn’t want to impose, or make her feel as though he’s trying to corner her alone. He still has that persistent worry that she only sees him as a seedy old man. “I won’t ever say no to your shortbread, Helaena.” He smiles, his tail flicking back and forth as he looks up at her, dropping himself into his favourite chair.

A bit of them all it was. The last flavor turned out to be millionaire shortbread. Past her was a friend. She smiles, a bit too fondly, at Dreuer in the chair she thinks of as his. It is one of the best seats in the house. Helaena plops down on the loveseat next to him, and reaches for the sticky note-studded copy of A Novel Approach she pulled out of her purse. "I did actually read it," she defends herself. "I just didn't get through the whole thing. I got distracted by Sappho, I fear. Her words are hard to tear yourself away from."

“You did?” His eyes widen in subtle surprise. “I know it is not particularly light reading.” His words are apologetic. He knows he is boring, he’s been told it time and again by his students. That anyone would appreciate his dull take on the ancient world unless forced to by the curriculum sounds silly. “It is understandable to be distracted by Sappho. She is one of history’s finest romantics.”

She pushes the plate of shortbread towards him as she pours them both tea. "I think it's hard for anyone to compare to Sappho, but I enjoyed your book, I really did. Not being a 'light read' isn't a bad thing. I learned a lot. It's difficult to thread the line between being informative without being exclusionary or talking down to readers, or alternately overexplaining or simplifying your material. I think you struck a nice balance." But I might be biased. "It's not a light read, no. But it's a good one, and that's far more important." She places a cup of earl grey, no sugar, splash of milk, in front of him. "I'd happily read anything you wrote, Dreuer. And I'm not just saying that because you're my friend." It's getting easier to say. Even if it still carries a small pang of disappointment every time. You're not in a hurry. It'll happen, or it won't. Just enjoy the moment.

Those were things he had often dreamed of hearing. To hear such praise from so beautiful and intelligent a woman was going to do nothing for his infatuation. This is going to get embarrassing. His tail flick-flicks, slow and keen, beneath the chair. “In which case, I am very glad to say we are friends.” He says with a low purr, as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. He coughs - an ugly crackle. Way to ruin the moment. “So I um…” he clears his throat. “I brought some more of my lecture materials, should you be interested… I also found some rewritten mythologies you might like.” He clutches that folder rather tightly to himself, while the rest of the papers are placed on the table.

"I'm very glad to be your friend, too." Whoops, too sincere. She does note the concerning depth of his cough, deep and chesty. But he seems self conscious about it, so she'd prefer not to pry. Still, she pushes the cup of tea more insistently towards him. The hot liquid should help, even if she's tempted to offer to add honey to it. "And of course I'm interested." She grins like a kid at Christmas, happy to have her current hyperfixation fed. If that hyperfixation was ancient Greece or one Professor Dreuer Wildfel, well... Six of one, half a dozen of the other. "Walk me through it, professor. What gifts of knowledge have you brought me?"

He clears his throat, adjusts his glasses and rolls up his sleeves. Strands of silver-black hair stray from his topknot to hang in front of his face. He walks her through his additional notes, the lectures they correspond with and where they add to the contents of his book. He talks about the theories, the certainties and the wild imaginings of his own overactive mind. It’s a subject he loves, and one he is keen to talk about at length. His low, droning, bored voice comes alive with the enthusiasm he has for Diogenes, and his knowledge seems almost to come from the soul. When he thinks, he runs his thumb over his bottom lip. When he’s passionate, he moves his hands. When he looks at Laena, it’s brief, flickering smiles over the top of his glasses.

Help. This man should not be allowed to be that attractive. It's truly rude. Every single button she's barely aware she has after years with reduced exposure to the general academia aesthetic. But by god, she's only human, and this man... His hands should be illegal. Forearms too. The glasses. Dreuer Wildfel is, in her opinion, objectively attractive. How had Jen put it, "yummy in a sort of dark academia dilf way" which, while crude, wasn't inaccurate. He's just so... Helaena blinks, and tries to force down her blush. He'd been saying something hadn't he? "Um, yes, I..." I have no idea what you just said. "I'll need to look into it further to know for sure."

He watches her, a small, fond smile on his face. He can almost kid himself into thinking she might like him back. The redness to her cheeks is likely due to her wearing a few too many layers, or the proximity of the cosy fire. “I brought something else for you to read… I would like this back, however. If that is alright.” He hands over the book under his arm. Homer’s Iliad - An Illustrated Translation by Anthony and Dreuer Wildfel

She frowns as she carefully examines the book, her touch light as a feather even as she keeps a secure grip on the precious codex. Anthony and Dreuer Wildfel. Oh god, it had to be- *oh*. "Dreuer, you can't give me this. Not even on a loan. What if something happened to it? What if- No, I can't accept this. I'm sorry. It must be very precious to you, and I can't risk- Not even if you have other copies, this one must mean a lot. "If I could purchase one somewhere, perhaps, I'd be thrilled to read it. But I- I can't risk taking away a memory of your husband, I can't. I wouldn't be able to live with myself." Of course Helaena is trained in handling precious, rare or fragile texts, papyrus, parchment and paper all. She is more terrified to somehow ruin this than she was examining original 12th century texts. This is precious. This cannot be ruined by a moment's carelessness.

“Oh I have other copies but this one has my annotations.” He explains. “So it is a little more suited to the um…” He frowns and scratches his nose. “The academic mind, you see. And I would not lend it to you if I were worried.” He gives her another encouraging nod. “Open it, see what you think I need to… poison myself.” He gives a small apologetic smile, flashing his vape as he gets to his feet.

"Vaporization is much less harmful than smoking cigarettes. Or other forms of tobacco." Her father had smoked for most of her childhood. He'd quit once he hit his late forties. Good riddance, too. But Dreuer never carried the unpleasant whiff of cigarettes to her. Some tobacco, yes, sandalwood, leather... something that might be dark fruit. But it had never stung her nose. "I'll, um... I'll be careful with it. I promise. Enjoy." She gestures a bit awkwardly at the vape cartridge. Helaena ensures the table is completely clean of crumbs and any errant tea spills before setting the book down, barely daring to crack open the cover. Don't read too much into this. Still, how was one supposed to not read anything into a man quite literally trusting you with a precious memory of their late and clearly beloved spouse?

“Hmmmh.” Clearly he doesn’t much care for whether or not it’s healthy. Vaping has become more convenient to him than cigarettes (which he now saves for quiet evenings in). It’s starting to rain. He reaches to pull up his coat collar but his coat is still in the cafe. The curse of the smoker.

The book is written like a graphic novel. The artwork is finely detained, and the accompanying text well researched. As Dreuer had said, the book is annotated. On one page he’s drawn a moustache and extravagant eyebrows on Patroclus. Most of the notes, however, are text relevant. On one of the pages nearer the back, Achilles’ speech bubble text has been scribbled out snd replaced with “I am an arrogant babygirl” in Dreuer’s handwriting. He has doodled in the book. Scribbled his thoughts. Added detail. It’s been well used over the years.

She snorts out loud at the scribbled-out speech bubble. Seeing Dreuer's less-than-reverent approach to the book does make it easier to flip through it as she might normally, smiling at well-familiar scenes, well translated in both text and image. It's a work of art, and a work of love. The close collaboration between artist and translator is obvious in every single page, not a single one of the small communication errors so often seem in illustrated works. It's beautiful. Anthony had true talent. And now, to her, a name. Anthony. Five years ago. Unless he'd been much older than Dreuer, it would have to have been tragic. Sudden, perhaps. And the timing... No wonder it had been easier to isolate oneself. Oh, Dreuer... She didn't pity him, no. But she was allowed to sympathize with him, right?

He shuffles back in, stifling a cough under the sound of the bell and swiping his newly wetted hair back from his face. “Oh… yes some of the pages have fallen victim to… boredom. Sorry.” He looks a little sheepish as he sits. She was looking to learn, not to put up with his random acts of mischief.

She chuckles as her fingers gently run over the moustached Patroclus. "Don't apologize, they're, well. They're hilarious. What did Achilles do to you that day?" Helaena teases. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of fun. If you're going to write in a book anyway, and keep it from being pristine, well... Who says it has to be all work and no play?" She flips the page, an illustration of Patroclus and Achilles together taking up its majority. "Was... Did your husband do a lot of illustrations? What was his primary medium?"

“Oh who knows with Achilles.” He grumbles as he sits down. He looks over the pages. “Yes… Anthony i-…. Was a comic book artist.” He murmurs. “Used to sit there for hours… shrimp-like. Working away.” His tail swishes back and forth, slow and comfortable, as he reaches for his tea, nearly gone cold. He hadn’t spoken about him in almost five years, ignoring every conversation and turning away. He thought it would be upsetting. Instead he found himself smiling at memories he had forgotten in exchange for his grief.

She chuckles at the image. "I think a lot of academics are familiar with the shrimp pose, too. I know I am, at least. Ugh, I used to get terrible aches in my shoulders and upper back..." Now it's more her feet, her upper arms if she's been rolling dough all day, her whole back to be quite honest... Many days ended in a long bath, the hot water helping to loosen her stiff, sore body. It would be nice, sometimes, to have someone there with her. Rubbing her shoulders or feet, keeping her company, pouring her a glass of wine and telling her about their day. You're just lonely. Stop it. "He was very talented. I'd love to see more of his work sometime, if you'd like to share it."

“I think you can google him.” He murmurs, picking up a separate page of notes to read, tilting his head to peer through his glasses. Anthony had been popular among comic book aficionados. His work had taken him around the world to conventions and gatherings. He would be welcomed to speak, to sign books. He had been - deservedly - adored. Dreuer smiles as he thinks about it. “He painted as well. Landscapes… though those are his… hmh… less commercial works.” And several are still gathering dust in the old cottage, Dreuer supposes. He feels a pang of guilt at that.

She nods, taking this as tacit permission to look Anthony up. Helaena hadn't wanted to snoop, even if she's been terribly curious. The curse of the academic, she supposes. Always curious, always seeking knowledge. Even when it's better perhaps not to know. "Landscapes? There's nothing wrong with non-commercial works. Some of the favorite writing I ever did I never submitted anywhere. Some of my best food I didn't receive a dime for. The quality of art and its commercial value are two different things entirely, as far as I'm concerned." She glances at Dreuer's teacup, clearly tepid at best. "Would you like a fresh cup? I've never been able to tolerate cold tea, personally, but I know many feel otherwise."

As embarrassing as it is, he has become accustomed to drinking cold tea. And eating cold food. With no one to constantly needle him to look after himself, he tended to forget what he had made. Often he would get lost in texts and research only to end up with a stone cold cup of tea. Which, of course, he would still drink. Waste not. “A fresh cup would be perfect. Thank you, Helaena.” He smiles, looking back down at his notes. “Is… there anything else you wish to cover? Any questions?” He tries to organise the papers so they are easier for her to carry.

"Questions? Oh, probably a million. But I'm unlikely to think of any before you leave, I'm afraid." She leaves for a moment to fetch a fresh cup, discarding the old in the pile of dirty dishes. It's easy as breathing to fix Dreuer a new one, the exact amount of milk he always uses gauged by color. Helaena isn't entirely useless at her job. "I'll write them down, maybe? I don't want to bother you too much, though, I know... Well, I know I've already drawn on quite a bit of your time and expertise, while giving you very little in return. I feel... Somewhat guilty about it. It's not your job to tutor random tea ladies."

“I can… give you my phone number, actually. I’m not so great at responding so please forgive me if I’m um… a little slow.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and leans forward to seek out a pen. He writes his phone number on the front page of notes. “But yes… you can call. Or message. And I will do my best to reply.” He takes the tea gratefully and blows across the top. The steam rises and covers his glasses.

His phone number. 10 digits written onto a simple piece of lined note paper. It feels like a gift as big as the books she will definitely have to insist on returning someday. "Thank you, Dreuer. I will..." Helaena chuckles softly. "I will try not to abuse the privilege." Why is the sight of his glasses steaming up, something that happens to her at least once a week, so ridiculously endearing? Because you're screwed and he maybe asked you out and definitely just gave you his phone number. She takes a generous sip from her own fresh cup of tea to cover her furious blush. God help her... "I, erm... I meant what I said, about not wanting to take up too much of your time. I figure you get enough stupid questions at work all day, I don't want to add to that. So really, don't... Don't feel obligated, or anything like that, I'd hate it if you felt forced to answer something you consider utterly asinine."

“Oh…” he looks at her and smiles. It’s brighter - a clear smile that seems to come from a different place than every smile that preceded it. He cradles his tea in two hands. Comfortable in his chair - and in her presence. He hasn’t yet noticed how much she feels like home to him. “… you never take up my time Helaena. I rather enjoy your company.”

"Oh." Her blush somehow manages to deepen, probably turning her the color of an overripe tomato. Real attractive, Lae. "The, uh, the feeling is mutual. Very much so. I..." I like you far too much. "I'm very happy I managed to get through your shell, at least a little. It's been nice, to make a new friend."

Very much so. He feels something akin to butterflies. As though he is some 20something undergraduate all over again. His tail flicks and swishes. “You’re always welcome, under my shell.” His words are quiet and sincere. He nods, before rising to his feet and shrugging his coat around his shoulders. He could go home, feed the cat and have dinner, knowing that there is some small spark of reciprocation. Of course, she couldn’t possibly consider romance but… A friend. An honest friend? That would be enough. He felt lighter than he had in years and through the clearing fog of his depressive isolation he could almost remember things that had been important to him before. Touch. Affection. The sound of Anthony’s laugh. Fluff’s grizzly purr. Sunlight. Birdsong. He did not think anything even remotely akin to love would ever begin to bloom in his heart again but if there is one thing to be said about Dreuer Wildfel, it is that he *loves*… almost too much. As he makes his way home she occupies his thoughts, and the rainclouds clear.

She sinks into the filled tub with a low groan. Another long, busy day on her feet, another walk through the cold, wet streets towards a colder, wetter park for Ros to stretch her legs and do her business, another lonely dinner of reheated leftovers. But Dreuer came. That was nice, Helaena reminds herself. Their discussion had started out academic, then turned more personal, but every part of it had, been, well, *nice*. You’re always welcome under my shell. I rather enjoy your company. It would be so easy to get used to it. Oh fucking hell, Laena's been trying to suppress thoughts like that, but it’s getting harder by the day. Dreuer is flirting with her. At least. Probably flirting with her? But he hasn’t as much as held her hand yet, so it’s impossible to say if he has any sort of intentions for, well, anything. Expect nothing, and you won’t get disappointed. Helaena sinks all the way into the water, until only her forehead and nose stick out, and tries to turn her brain off. Difficult, at the best of times. Especially with thoughts of Dreuer’s slightly-teasing smile over the brim of his glasses filling her head, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his elegant hands gesturing as he makes a point about late-archaic philosophers.

The trees flash past. The leaves are almost all gone leaving the pines standing dark and green across the hills among silver-grey skeletons. The church is not far from Galabank, a spire rising into the grey sky. This is where the taxi drops him. He presses his vape to his mouth, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he makes the short walk into the cemetery. He hadn’t been here since the funeral. Anthony Marcello Wildfel 1978 - 2019 41 years Beloved Son and Husband “Sorry I’m late.” God it was embarrassing. He could imagine the response. “Oh you finally decided to show up, amore?” “I was… busy.” “Were you?” “Well… no I was sulking.” He confesses. “That is so typical of you. I bet you’ve not been eating. Smoking like a chimney. Fucks sake, Dreuer.” “I’m sorry.” He talks for longer than he knew he could, without lecturing. He sits cross legged on top of the cold earth. He tells Anthony about his work, all the scandalous gossip of Dekarios’ divorce that would have entertained them both for days were they able to discuss it. He tells him about his successes, his sulks. The cat. The lady in the upstairs apartment that he’s convinced himself is in a cult. He tells him about Helaena. About the cafe, and the comfort he’s found. “… I hadn’t realised I had shut myself off.” “Of course you hadn’t. Because you’re an idiot.” “I know. I’m sorry. But I’m here now, that… counts for something, no?” “I think you have some making up to do, amore.” “… hmh… then it’s a good thing I brought this.” He takes a paperback from his pocket, folds it to the first page and begins to read aloud.

It’s hours later that he walks up the single track road into the woods. The path is overgrown, brambles and gorse spilling onto the cracked concrete. He makes it to the house in the woods and smiles. It’s dormant, and the windows are dirty. Unlocking the door reveals years of accumulated dust, and he coughs violently. Being stuck in a basement flat is so vastly removed from being here, where there was space and comfort and love. There are smuts from the fire still in the grate. A coffee cup overgrown with mould that has long since died sits on the side table. There are blankets. Books. Paintings. Everything he used to love, and shut himself off from. He trails a finger through the dust on his piano, and looks through into the bedroom. The bathroom is an embarassment. Anthony’s studio is a festival of dust and mess. He makes a mental note to hire a cleaner and gardener. *** During the taxi ride back to the flat, he smiles. It feels… better. As if wounds are healing. It’s been so, so long. He can’t help but think of Helaena, and the part she has played in this. There is a warmth in the pit of his chest, and he feels a nervous excitement about seeing her again.

She half anticipates, half dreads, the prospect of seeing Dreuer again. It's perfectly normal. There's nothing inherently wrong in it. "Downright allosexual behavior," Aly would tease. I'm trying, she'd insist. I'm trying so hard not to get hung up on a man who is basically the definition of emotionally unavailable. It might already be too late. So all she can do is just... act normal. Helaena's always been great at that. Another morning, another groggy cup of tea by the kitchen sink, another grumble of Ros startling her out of her thoughts, another walk through the brisk late-fall weather, another cafe opening, all 90% on autopilot. Dreuer has been fitting so seamlessly into her routine, turning the ordinary into something she looks forward to, for new reading material, for expanding her horizons, for the chance of another discussion with him, about philosophy or faculty politics or Halsin's collection of collectible duck figurines, proudly displayed in his office. Anything, really. She just enjoys his company. That's the problem, isn't it? A years-long dry spell after another few years of consistently disappointing dates was easier than this.

His morning feels bright. Even the rain can’t dampen his mood as he makes his toast, marmalade and cup of tea for the morning.

The large longhaired cat sits on the corner of the table. He licks his paws, spreading his toes wide to get his yellowing teeth between his beans.

He has a shower, and feels better for it. He trims his beard and brushes his hair, and picks out clothes that he thinks make him look almost acceptable. He likes wearing black, but the older he gets the more obvious it makes his greys.

Watching the tiefling is fascinating. He hasn’t been this animated in the mornings since they left the house in the woods with the mice that lived beneath the floorboards. There were no mice here. It was, in all, rather boring. Especially as Dreuer never let him outside, where there were cars rushing by. Not that it really mattered. In his age, Fluff had become sedantry. He settles in Dreuer’s favourite chair and pretends to be asleep.

a black sweater beneath his favourite coat, and a scarf in a shade of dark red Anthony always said had suited him. Maybe she’ll find him handsome. That would be nice. He walks through the rain rather quickly beneath his dark umbrella, eager to make his way to Helaena’s cafe. He wonders what she’s wearing today. If Ros is going to be there to greet him. He wonders how she’ll have her hair… how it might feel between his fingers… The jingle of the bell makes him glance upwards for the first time. A happy little chime perking his ears.

Dreuer. Her smile never has to be fake when it's him. She never has to be anyone but herself with him, and it's a bigger relief than she knows how to express. It's far too easy. "Good morning, professor. The usual for you?" He's always handsome. That's part of the problem. But she so rarely sees him in colors, something in his eyes brighter, and... God, I'm fucked. "I hope you had a nice day yesterday." He hadn't been, for once, and she tried not to think of how unusual that had become for weekdays.

“Hm? Oh… the usual… yes.” He smiles, the realisation that he was worth remembering to someone felt like a revelation. “I went out to Galabank yesterday. It was very cold, out on the heath. Could have done with a nice cup of coffee.” I will have to take you with me. “I had no classes you see so I took advantage of that uh… little gap in my schedule.”

"Galabank? That's lovely, I don't think I've ever been." Driving past it at some point wasn't unlikely, and she had vaguely heard of the place. It was one of many semirural areas in the uplands of Edinburgh. "Do you have family or friends out there?" It's not too busy yet, so she allows herself to linger, allows her hands not to work at maximum efficiency as she sets a double shot americano, no milk, to brew.

“Oh… no but that’s where I used to live.” He confesses. These are things he wouldn’t dare talk about to anyone else. It’s safe, he feels, to talk to Helaena. “Anthony is there… I um…” He looks down. It’s embarrassing, really, to admit. “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to about him since the accident, I hadn’t actually…” He closes his eyes. “ I hadn’t been since the funeral. So I owe you my thanks, for pushing me to… to leave my shell, I suppose.”

She'd been fantasizing about him while he was planning his first visit to his late husband's grave. I'm a fucking monster. "I didn't... I didn't realize," Helaena confesses. "I'm... You're welcome? I was hoping it had been more of a gentle coaxing than a push, but, um... I'm glad. I really am. That you visited, it can... It can really help." Closure. Acceptance. Closeness to someone you've lost, even knowing logically they couldn't hear you. It all mattered. "But... Just remember it's for you, and not for anyone else. No one gets to tell you how to mourn. No one gets to tell you how to live. I don't... I didn't know your husband, but he would want you to live for you, right? Not anyone else's idea of what you're supposed to do."

“No, it’s… it’s been very good for me.” He nods encouragingly. “Actually to thank you, I wanted to ask if you would come to the carol concert at the classics department? As my guest… then you don’t have to buy a ticket you see.” He smiles, and it’s lighter. She’s right, Anthony would never have wanted him to waste his life. He could imagine him already, standing behind him and pushing him towards Helaena. Stop brooding and tell her you like her, idiota…

Yep, he's definitely asking me out now. He has to be, right? "I'd... yes, I'd love that. That would be really nice. It's, um. It's still next weekend, right? Saturday?" Holy shit this might actually be a date. Okay. Stay normal. Stay normal. Helaena Ivy Cresswell has never been normal a day in her life. "Is it, uh... formal? Or anything?" If she was going to overthinking what to wear before this...

“It’s on Saturday, yes. I will be working that morning… it’s not formal, don’t worry just… wear what you like to wear.” He gestures to her. “You always look lovely so… I think it will not matter so long as you are there.” His tail does not stop flicking back and forth between his heels.

It will not matter as long as you are there. *Help*, she begs silently. How, how am I supposed to not fall head over heels for this man? She nods mutely, her hands fumbling as she hands over his coffee. If I'm already lost, why not make the best of it? "I'll be there. It's, um. It's a date." WHY did she say that?! "I'm looking forward to it. Company and carols both, that is."

Is it? A date? He hasn’t been on a date since 1999. The doorbell chimes. “… If you send me a message I can send you the details and times and… all of that.” He awkwardly takes a hold of the coffee. He can feel eyes burning into the back of his head, and doesn’t need to turn around to know that Halsin has entered the cafe behind him.

The elf hasn’t missed a second of this interaction, despite turning up late. He sees them, he knows what is passing between them clearer than anything. He smiles at the pair. They really would be brilliant for one another.

"I will," Helaena promises, her smile burning bright as she recognized the explicit permission. He doesn't think I'm a bother. He wants to hear from me. The doorbell chimes, and heat rises in her cheeks at the sight of Halsin. "Halsin! Good morning. The usual for you today?" Act normal act normal act normal

She’s busy. He’s wasting her time. “I’ll hear from you, then.” He smiles meekly as he backs towards the door.

Halsin grabs his arm. “Don’t be so hasty my friend. I have something regards to the current excavation in Delphi that I need to confer with you.”

That bastard. “of course… I’ll wait.”

Was Halsin... trying to keep Dreuer here? Helaena shoots him a grateful look as she busies herself with oat milk and chai blends. Please don't run away, her eyes beg Dreuer. Please don't go yet. "I read about the new Delphi excavations. The archaeology department is quite heavily involved, isn't it? Did you find anything interesting? Unless you can't tell me, of course, I don't mean to break any NDAs." She might not be practising in the field, but that doesn't mean she doesn't snoop off a friend or two's journal subscriptions. Her issue had never been lack of passion.

Dreuer is, to anyone who knows him, visibly irritated. His expression doesn’t change much but his tail shivers by his ankle. “I’m not archaeological. Ask someone else.” The latter half of his terse statement is delivered directly to Halsin, who returns a soft, sympathetic look. That only annoys Dreuer more. “I can tell you more, Helaena, once the faculty are finished with their task of annoying me while I try to buy myself a coffee… this could have been an email, Halsin.”

There’s some fire back in the tiefling. Just as he suspected. “Alright, alright, my apologies for disrupting your morning ritual. Shall I put it in an email or shall I pass by your office when you are feeling more amicable? Perhaps once you have had your coffee, and Laena’s magic has worked on you.” This earns Halsin a scowl. He’s playing with the man. “coffee magic, of course.” He assures.

“Hmh.” Unfortunately for Dreuer, scowling looks good on him. He doesn’t speak again, and swiftly exits the cafe to bluster like a bat across the windy rainy road.

Halsin chuckles, shaking his head. “Ahh… still life in the old dog yet.”

Work her magic. Well, Helaena feels a lot less self conscious about Halsin knowing about... whatever it was she had with Dreuer. (A date, maybe. Probably. It had to be, right?) She can't help but snort into the espresso machine at Dreuer's terse this meeting could have been an email. God, it'd be so easy to love him. It's too soon, of course, far too soon, but she just... likes him, well and truly. "He's more bark than bite, Halsin. But I've never met a classicist that appreciated being confused for an archaeologist. Prickly bunch, aren't they?" She'd been confused for a philosopher or a student of literature more than once. With equally short responses unless she was in a good mood.

“Oh I know… we all know.” He laughs, nodding his head back across the road at the faculty building. “He’s been rather left without his bark… until recently. It’s good to see a bit of the old Dreuer resurfacing.” He leans in a little closer, his smile knowing and kind. “You are good for him.”

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," Helaena mutters as color rises in her cheeks. "I'm not... I can't fix him, and I'm not trying to. I might take credit for getting him to eat a bit more, but that's it. I'm just his friend. I hope I _help_, but he's doing the work. As he should." She's spent enough time trying to fix or change things that can't or don't want to be changed. Dreuer has to decide what he wants, and work to get it. She can help and support him, at best. "I just... try to be there for him. I hope that's enough. But yes, he does seem to have more cheer lately. It's nice to see." Just a hint more color, too, in his wardrobe and his cheeks. Dreuer looked like he was coming back alive after a long sleep. Or perhaps a coma. "Would you, um... Like anything else with your latte, maybe? I don't want you to run late to class on my account."

“Oh, please don’t get me wrong, and I don’t mean to overstep, Laena…” He holds up his hands, “But it must be said you are providing him a much needed source of joy. It is heartwarming to see. He’s a kind soul, really, underneath all his posturing. I think he had just forgotten. I won’t take anything else, thank you. You always keep us academics warm in the winter.” He has the capacity to smile with such softness for one so large. He takes his latte in both of his broad hands to warm his cold knuckles.

"I know, Halsin. I... hm. It's why I kept trying. The glimpses of the Dreuer under his mask. I've been seeing a lot more of him, recently-" Too much, too private, too honest, too raw- "You're welcome. I do what I can, but the least of it has to be a good cuppa in the morning. We all deserve that, don't we?" Now she's actually visited the hallowed halls of the Old Medical School, she's well aware of how drafty it gets this time of year. The wind cuts straight through the old window panes, and the walls never seem to fully warm. Dreuer's comfortable jumpers aren't solely a fashion choice. I'll keep him warm. It's the least I can do. The vehemence of the thought surprises her, turns her the slightest bit abrupt as she counts out Halsin's change and wishes him a good day. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

“I’ll see you soon Laena. You take care!” He’s still chuckling. He knows Dreuer is going to be an impossible bastard about this whole ordeal, but the elf can’t help but feel the element of mischief prickling at his old mind. Dreuer is such a prime target for teasing.

He’s placed his phone on his desk, just in case. The old, outdated clamshell that had been forced into his hand by an exasperated husband, and then never updated. He doubts she will message him. It’s childish, really, to think that she might allow her busy day to grind to a halt just to tap out a message to a moody old man. But she was nice to him. So nice to him. And the more time he spent with her the more he wondered if, maybe, just maybe, she felt the same as he did. That flutter of excitement whenever their eyes met, or whenever their fingers briefly touched.

🔔 Unknown Number 🔔 Hello, Dreuer. This is Helaena. About a minute passes before another message arrives. I didn't mean to bother you, but I'd love to talk to you more outside of the cafe. If you'd like, I usually take Ros for a walk about half an hour before the cafe opens. I know it's early, and you'd probably prefer to sleep later or enjoy your own morning routine, but it's an open offer. I hope to see you again soon.

1️⃣ unread message Hello Helaena. 2️⃣ unread messages If you would like, I can accompany you on your walks. I like spending time with you too. 3️⃣ unread messages does it have to be so early or could we make it an afternoon?

Helaena snorts as she looks at the messages trickling in on her phone. Maybe he dislikes mornings as much as she does. It's... stupidly endearing.

🔔 Helaena 🔔 I usually don't have the time to take Ros on more than two walks on days I'm working. But I take her out in the afternoons on my days off. Otherwise, there's the evenings, but you'd obviously have headed home from work well before then. My next day off is tomorrow. I was thinking of taking her down to the Meadows, let her properly stretch her legs. Maybe four or five pm?

"Ooooh, exchanged phone numbers, have you? How _forward._" Jenevelle's sharp eyes easily catch the Dreuer at the top of the the message thread.

"Jen, please... I'm asking him if he'd like to come with me to walk my dog, we're not fucking sexting."

"Who said anything about sexting?" The half elf winks as she withdraws to the kitchen with a tub of dirty dishes.

"You *implied*- ugh, screw it." It doesn't matter. Jenevelle and Astarion have a way of turning everything into innuendo and then act innocent after. Menaces, the lot of them.

1️⃣ unread message 4 then. I look forward to it.

he had spent most of his morning focusing on his phone, rather than paying attention to his work. He had barely written or read anything at all.

Halsin had passed by several times, before finally committing to stopping in the doorway. “You asked her out, then.”

“No, I asked her to come to the concert.” He grumbles.

“oh of course. There is nothing romantic about latin arias and Christmas lights, my mistake.” He teases.

Dreuer’s tail shivers. “Nothing is going to happen. We are friends.”

“I never said anything was going to happen, friend. You said that… almost as if you are thinking about it.”

“Shut up Halsin, or I’ll set fire to your office.”

His texts are so... short. It's hard to figure out what Dreuer's actually thinking. It's easier when I can look him in the eye. Still, tomorrow afternoon. That wasn't nothing at all. Outside the cafe, or his lecture hall. Maybe he'll come up for a cup of tea after. Yeah, and maybe he'll sweep her off her feet, declare his love, and ask if she wants to go to Paris for Christmas. Oh well, it never hurts to dream. Or to hope. And now she has one sort-of date to look forward to, and another probably-a-date. Shit, does her hair look dumb in the knit cap she usually wears to walk Ros?

🔔 Helaena 🔔 I'll see you then!

The rest of the day passes rather procedurally, though he feels lighter. The fog of his long embedded depression was shifting with good company, and an affection he still wasn’t quite sure was real. Maybe it was all his imagination but she had invited him to walk, and so after the morning’s tutorial and a brief lunch (forced upon him by Halsin and Gale) he makes his way across the street. It!s not raining which is nice, but it is desperately cold, and the sky is already darkening. Fortunately he has brought a torch.

3:55pm finds Helaena curled up on the couch, Ros splayed across her legs, as she is wholly absorbed in a chapter of the last third of A Novel Approach, only occasionally looking up to scribble down a note or a question to bother Dreuer with later. Her phone pings with the reminder she set herself. "_Shit!_" she blurts out, abruptly snapping the book shut. She was going to do... something to her hair, put on something nicer than her usual day-off outfit of yoga pants, nan-made wooly socks and an oversized, criminally cosy jumper, but now? It'd be fortunate if she managed to get her hair out of its messy bun without making it look like a haystack. Fuck it. Dreuer's seen her looking worse, hasn't he? "C'mon Ros, time for a walk! How's the Meadows sound, hmm?"

Ros barks in excitement, insistently egging her person on to hurry up until she's safely harnessed and leashed and on her way down the stairs. She spots Dreuer first, lurking outside the walkup like he isn't sure he's supposed to be there. She almost bowls Helaena over in her insistence to say hello, immediately.

"Damn it, Ros, we've talked about this, you can't just- oh." She resists the urge to tug at her hair or adjust the knit cap protecting her head from the cold. "Hello, Dreuer. How was your day?"

She could be wearing sack cloth and rags and he would still think her to be beautiful. Because she -is- beautiful. In a way that makes his stomach twist as he sees her wrangling her over enthusiastic little friend. He drops to one knee with a slight grunt to greet Ros. The little dog seems to be made of a very dense, very wriggly material covered in an abundance of skin that you could wiggle and scratch. “It’s been… very standard.” He says, with a small smile up at her. “But all the brighter for a walk in favourable company.” He stands up, his knees crunching with a sound like creasing tin foil. “Has yours been okay? I am sorry I didn’t see you this morning. Jen made my coffee, it was very nice… not as nice as yours, of course.”

She huffs out a laugh, stupidly charmed by even such a small compliment. "You're sweet, but I think it's the same beans and machine no matter who pushes the buttons, Dreuer." Helaena's smile is radiant, a sunbeam even in the dreary November evening. "And my day was quite nice, actually. I slept in, made a breakfast I didn't have to sell to anyone, camped out on the couch with Ros... Oh, and I almost finished your book!" She beams up at Dreuer, much taller than her now he's back on his feet. Don't think about that dream you had, don't think about his elegant fingers being put to an use beyond gesturing- "Shall we?"

It does matter. Jen doesn’t brighten his morning the way Helaena does. The coffee just tastes like coffee again. Not that it’s any reflection on Jen, more a reflection of the customer himself, and his reasons for coming into the cafe. He can’t help but smile, thinking of her curled upon the sofa, comfortable and cosy. A place he would rather like to be. He wonders if she would be irritated by his attention seeking antics. If he were to kiss her neck while she read, would she swat him away? “I hope it’s not been too much of a quagmire for you.” He offers by way of a half apology.

"Your book? No, of course not! I didn't bring my list of questions, I feel like, well..." I feel like I've been bothering you, constantly, no matter how often you insist otherwise. Helaena guides them across the street and down the path towards the park while she tries to gather her thoughts. "I don't think your book is a quagmire, Dreuer. If any of your students have called it one, they clearly haven't fully engaged with the material, or are just taking the class in the false anticipation of an easy credit. "Your writing is sound, the argument coherent, and evidence laid out in a persuasive and thoughtful manner. It's a good book, truly, and it's taught me a lot without ever making me feel like I was being spoken down to, which is more than most academic writing can say." It's usually one or the other, in her experience. Unfortunately, most academics were better researchers than writers or teachers. Helaena had enjoyed teaching a lot, but, well... It didn't make up for the rest, in her book. "I'm reading it because I want to, Dreuer. I would have bought a copy myself, had you not lent me one. You don't have to feel like... I don't know, like you're obligating me. Were it the case that I didn't want to, I'd simply not read it, and not come to your lectures." Even the thought makes her stomach drop. That'd be so much less time in Dreuer's company, so much less of his voice, his face, his eyes briefly finding hers in the back rows. No, she'd never. Not unless it's clear she's unwelcome.

Listening to her was more warming than any drink could be. He felt her praise in the deepest part of his chest. He loved seeing her in his lectures. He should tell her. As they head for the park he feels the first spots of rain fall against his cheeks. “I am glad you like my work. I like seeing you in my lectures.” He says quietly. “I know that I can look up, and be sure at least one person will be listening. I know you are always listening, and I like it when you smile at me.” He reaches into his coat pocket. “I feel as though… hmh… I am doing something right. You are very astute… very sharp minded. If I can hold your attention… it makes me feel worth listening to. So thank you.” He raises the umbrella as the rain slowly grows, and holds it over the both of them. He doubts Ros will mind the rain… do dogs mind the rain?

You are very astute. Sharp minded. If I can hold your attention... He needs to stop saying things like that or she might start to believe him. Of course he brought an umbrella. What was it, four years in Edinburgh now, her whole life in the UK, and she still forgets half the time, especially if she's in a rush. It's, well... It's a really good excuse to stay close, though, her shoulder brushing his chest, his warm breath tickling her ear. Fuck... "I'm glad," Helaena manages, her voice almost unaffected. "You are, you know. Worth listening to. I really enjoy your lectures, and not just- not just because it's _you_, for the material, too. You're wonderful, Dreuer, but... You're an excellent teacher, too."

Ros is entirely unaware or uncaring of the actions of the two-leggeds. She is unbothered, moisturized (by the rain), in her lane, focused (on sniffing), flourishing. It's good to be a dog.

Wonderful. He feels something prickle behind his eyes, though he attributes it to the cold air, rather than the feeling in his chest that he had almost entirely forgotten about. Self worth. A warmth he could never find alone, and had lost sight of without someone kind enough to show it to him. He owed her so very much, and she didn’t even know it. How could he possibly not want her? “I try my best.” He says quietly. Every time her hair tickles his neck by chance, his heart stops.

I try my best. He does, doesn't he? Dreuer is always trying, and so rarely afforded the grace or kindness to have those efforts appreciated. Helaena can barely fathom the enormity of losing a spouse. Of having to keep going while the most important person in your life is just... gone. Dreuer is trying his best. And that's so much more than enough. "I know," she promises. It's so tempting, in that moment, to reach for his hand in a silent gesture of support. It would be platonic on her part, or at least mostly so, but... Not yet. She turns enough to look him in the eye, his face so much closer than she'd consciously realized. "I know, Dreuer. And your best is so much more than I'd ever ask for."

He smiles, but he doesn’t turn to look at her. If he does he might break, and there is a large part of his mind still telling him that it’s inappropriate. She won’t really want him. He’s too curmudgeonly. Too solemn. Too old. But to spend time with someone is enough. To reach a point five years after the end of his world where he might even consider unlocking his heart again was something he could not have predicted. Thank you. His knuckles brush against hers, and his fingers twitch. He takes her hand for the briefest of moments, a soft touch, and affirming squeeze of their palms together to show just how grateful he is to have her. Her hands are warmer than his own. It’s a pleasant feeling. He lets go. He doesn’t want it to feel like an intrusion.

Dreuer's hands are cold. Helaena knows this because for just a moment, one of them are clasped with hers, their palms pressed together, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand in the gentlest of caresses. Her breath hitches, her heart stops. And then he lets go. He's close, still, close enough the sleeve of his coat brushes hers, his breath a slight warmth near her ear... But he let go. "Dreuer, you don't- you don't have to-" For a moment, she manages to catch his eyes, manages to see the conflict swirling in the hazel, not shuttered, not now, but open and vulnerable. "You don't have to let go if you don't want to. I... I don't-" It's just a squeeze of a hand, and she's more affected than she's been with someone's tongue down her throat. "I don't mind," is what comes out of her mouth. I don't want you to let go, is what she means. Please hold my hand. Please do anything you want.

For an intelligent man his mind works slowly when it comes to matters of the heart. So fragile is his self esteem that the mere thought anyone might like him in return seems ludicrous. And he hasn’t had to worry about it at all since he was in his very early twenties. He rationalises it in the only way he can realise: she is his friend, and her hands are cold. “Sorry my fingers are… not warm.” He apologises, but he takes her hand again. Still gentle, still softly squeezing. He tries to quash the butterflies he feels, and how his mind is whirling over the warmth of her bare skin. It’s such a foolish thing to get so fraught over but he hasn’t really touched another human being since the funeral. That was five years ago. “So… you don’t find my book boring. In fact you have questions?” He asks, trying to take his mind from his own buzzing thoughts.

Questions? Questions. She'd had questions, that she'd written down, intelligent, coherent questions about- God, her mind refuses to function when his palm is pressed to hers, his elegant, careful fingers wound around hers, touching her as carefully as one might spun glass or a fragment of papyrus predating the fall of the Western Roman Empire. "My, um. My hands get cold, too." It's a miracle they aren't clammy from nervous sweat... but nervous isn't quite the right word. Dreuer makes her a lot of things. Happy, often, sad others, mostly in empathy, amused, flattered, driven out of her mind with conflicting thoughts and emotions... Right now, she feels... Hope. Anticipation. Nerves, yes, but the kind that make her feel like she could float right off the paved path. "And I did have questions, yes, but... I'd rather save them until I'm done reading. I wouldn't want to waste your time in case it's answered in the next chapter." There. A reasonable cause, instead of I'd love to pick your brain but full-frontal handholding made my wits melt out of my ears. "We could talk about, um..." How it looked like you were torn between doing something and running away for a moment. "Your cat," she finally decides. "Is he going to be very upset with the both of us for keeping you away from home?"

“I see.” He looks up at the umbrella to make sure it still covers them both. They cut quite the romantic figure, walking hand in hand beneath the canopy, with Ros bounding cheerily ahead. Dreuer hasn’t noticed how that might look. He is too transfixed on the warmth of her palm, the softness of her skin beneath the hard callouses of his own fingerprints. “Mr Fluffikins? Pfsh. He is always in a bad mood.” He’s glad of the conversational distraction. His mind was chasing away down avenues it had no business being in. “I think it comes naturally to him to sulk.” He comments. “… just like me I suppose.”

"If owners are like their pets, I'm not sure I like what that suggests about me," Helaena quips, glancing over at Ros, visible more or less as as excited ball of soaked-through ruddy fur and a jauntily raised tail running through every pile of leaves and bit of shrubbery. "And I don't think you're always in a bad mood, for the record. I'm sure even Fluff can be cheered up, with the right motivation." But who thought to name your cat Mr Fluffikins? You? Anthony? The more Dreuer shares about his past, about his late husband, about himself, the more questions she has. She's nosy, yes, but she also just wants to know him. Small things and big things both. Tell me everything. "How did you get Mr Fluffikins? Was he a kitten, or grown already?"

“Hmm, true.” He shrugs a shoulder. “But it can be satisfying to have a good, long sulk.” His tail swishes behind him in time with his steps. The cool rain against its bare skin is rather refreshing. “Anthony found him, when we moved into the house in Galabank. We think a feral cat had passed through with a litter of kittens and he had become stuck beneath the house.” He laughs slightly at the memory. “He was a fierce little thing. I was adamant we would not be keeping him. No pets in the house, I was certain of that.” It had taken less than forty eight hours for him to become completely enamoured with the kitten.

"But you kept him, anyway. For thirteen years, was it?" Dreuer has so much more capacity for kindness than he grants himself. "I was raised in a house with dogs. My parents had a dog from when I was a toddler to when I moved out. And then I got Ros when I finished my master's, and thought I'd have more time for a puppy before I started my Ph.D." She'd moved to Edinburgh less than six months later. "So I've never experienced the loss of pristine, furless furniture, I'm afraid. And I wouldn't give up Ros' company for the world, even if she is a little shit. But she's my little shit."

“Hmh… well… can’t kick him out now. He knows too much.” He grunts. His tail continues to swish-swish happily. It’s nice to have a chance to share banter. That’s possibly the greatest gift she has given him - the return of his voice and his humour. “She is a fine little dog. Not a little shit at all.” He says, almost addressing the dog more than Laena. Whose hand he’s still holding onto, without any bristle of fear or discomfort. Quite the opposite in fact. He is walking slower now as they walk around the return loop of the park. Even as the rain pours the dark evening is pleasant. His torch remains in his pocket as they walk instead through the amber pools cast by the streetlights over rain-spattered tarmac.

"Dreuer, she's never stolen your shoes or begged for your crisp bread. Trust me, she's absolutely a little shit. She's just also one of my best friends." She's called Ros her best friend more than once. It's the truth, even if part of her feels Dreuer beginning to wriggle into that top spot. "It's also a lot easier not to feel lonely when you don't come home and find it empty." Wow, too honest, even if Dreuer would be able to relate, more than anyone. "Not, that, um..." No, but she is. Desperately lonely, at times, in a city far from her family and her best friends, living on her own, the people she speaks to most all ones whose paychecks she signs every month. Maybe Dreuer is too. He has to be, right? "Ros helps," she finally says. "But she'll steal your dinner if you're not careful."

He knows loneliness well. He has walked in its constant company for years, let it loom over him, scaring off any other potential companions. Fluff had been the only one not afraid of the spectre of loneliness. He had purred his way past it, tail shivering in the air, to sit warmly on Dreuer’s chest. Often literally. He had sat with Dreuer’s loneliness but Laena was chasing it away. “Ros is wonderful. She can afford a little mischief now and then… it makes life far more entertaining.” She still hasn’t pulled her hand away, he can still feel her. His own palm is warm now from the proximity. He could get used to this. “… is your other hand cold?” He asks. It would be remiss of him not to ask.

Cold? She's not cold at all, despite the chill. Her cheeks are flushed, most of her body bundled up in layers of warm wool, her hand in Dreuer's pleasantly warm, even downright toasty. There's a pair of gloves lying forgotten in her coat pocket. Dreuer thinks I'm holding his hand because I'm cold? Helaena holds his hand because she wants to, plain and simple. But if this small white lie keeps him from pulling away... "Yes, a little. Would, you, um..." Her eyes meet his for another split second, before she blushes and looks down at Ros again. "Would you mind?"

He wrestles against the inherent urge to draw her knuckles to his lips. He clears his throat as he shifts, his umbrella moving from one hand to the other as he steps behind her in two graceful strides. This hand is much colder than his other, having grasped the handle of the umbrella in the wet, cold air. “I do not mind at all.” He says with what he hopes is a small comforting smile.

A shiver goes through her whole body as Dreuer's fingers lace with hers, and it has nothing to do with the contrast in temperature. It's just holding hands. You hold hands with friends all the time. That doesn't feel like this. They are getting closer to the cafe, their walk coming to a close, this excuse Helaena invented to be able to see him... And she doesn't want it to be over yet. "Would you... be willing to come up for a cup of tea? To warm up? I don't want to send you straight back into the cold. I'd... I'd like it it if you did."

Say yes. Say that every minute you spend in her company makes you feel worth something. Tell her how it feels as though you are alive again for the first time in years… “I um… I won’t, I should get back to Mr Fluffikins. I did not tell him I would be out late he will already be waiting for his pilchards.” He gives her hand one last squeeze. As his fingers slip away, an arctic blast of wind cuts across his cheeks as though chastising him. “But I can walk with you again tomorrow, if you are not bored of my company.” His smile is delicate, as if it might fade at any suggestion of dismissal from spending time with her. “Do you still want to come to the carol service too? I have a ticket for you… but I think I left it in my office.”

Helaena smiles even through her disappointment. You have all the time in the world. It'll happen, or it won't. Being his friend is enough. She genuinely does believe that. "I never bore of your company, Dreuer, I genuinely enjoy our conversations. I'd love to walk with you again tomorrow." She could dip out of work for an hour. It was always quiet in the late afternoon on weekdays in winter, anyway. "And of course I'd like to go to the concert with you! I've been looking forward to it." A bit too much, maybe. Had she already fretted over what to wear? No one could prove anything.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And every day after I should imagine.” He steps back, once she is safely under the shelter of her cafe’s stoop. “Thank you for inviting me to walk with you. You too.” He adds, bending briefly to give the soggy little corgi a good scratch. If he allowed himself to stay, he might not leave. He did not want to make a fool of himself when she had been so kind to offer the hand of friendship. “I’ll try and answer your questions next time I see you.” His tail swishes happily as he turns to walk away through the rain.

Dinner was late. Which was a rare occurrence these days and made Fluff irritated. When Dreuer finally did come home he smelled of dog, which was even more of an insult. At least he hummed in time to The Hall of the Mountain King as it played on the radio instead of feeding him in silence. Fluff could appreciate that. Still, no insult goes unreturned, and once his belly is filled Fluff strides from the kitchen with his tail held high to sit in the window and face the wall, pointedly ignoring Dreuer.

Dreuer didn’t mind. He was in the finest mood. He ate a decent dinner, sang in the shower and fell asleep without persistent nightmares and terrors. So many of his days were like this now. Even as the frost set in, spidering across his office windows, he couldn’t look out across the grey winter street without feeling warm inside. The day of the concert grew nearer, and he felt butterflies rise in his stomach.

Helaena does see him almost every day. And every time, that twist of anticipation and fear and hope and joy in her stomach returns. Dreuer holds her hand when they walk Ros now, sometimes in the afternoons, sometimes in the evenings after the cafe closes. Sometimes, he hesitates before letting her go. Every single time she wants to ask him to stay, to not let go, to come inside, to not run away from her. But she doesn't. Because she's a coward.

"Lae, if you like him, just tell him that."

"It's not that simple," Helaena insists, over and over again. She does like him. Of course she does. Far too much. But if he returns her feelings, in anything like the same intensity? Oh, that's another matter entirely. As the concert nears, she decides to make an effort, for once. To clean up, wear something nice. She wants to feel beautiful, even if he doesn't find her so. So, she settles on one of her favorite dresses, a very Christmas-appropriate almost-emerald deep green, not quite formal, not quite informal, to be worn with simple but classy black pumps because her closet is sadly low on "cute" colors, and a few bits of silver jewelry. About twenty minutes before they've arranged to meet, Helaena looks herself over critically in the mirror in her bedroom. "What do you think, Ros? Will I pass muster?"

Ros' tail wags lazily from where she's splayed out on the unmade bed. She barely bothers to lift her head.

"I suppose it'll have to do." She sighs and adjusts a curl, already escaping from her careful updo. Maybe he hates green. Maybe it'll be too formal. Maybe it'll be too informal. Maybe it's too forward, and I'll scare him off. Maybe there's no point worrying. "It'll be fine," Helaena tells herself, and Ros. "If nothing else, the music will be good. And I heard there's wine."

Ros gives a skeptical little huff.

"Rude," Helaena mutters, before reaching for her purse. "See you later, Ros!"

She's already asleep. It's good to be a dog.

Dressing for semi-formal events has always been easy for Dreuer. He cuts a fine figure in a suit without a tie, and spent a large percentage of his life with a live-in artist who knew how to dress him. Some of Anthony’s style advice had worn off on him over the years and he could make himself look rather charming when he needed to. He brushed his hair until it turned from wiry curls to silk waves, and twists it into a much smarter topknot than usual. He neatens his beard and wears aftershave, before leaving the house he chooses his finest umbrella and softest dark green scarf before making his way along the dark streets to the door alongside the cafe that led to Helaena’s apartment. His heart is racing at such a pace he’s certain anyone passing would be able go hear. He rings the doorbell and he waits.

For some reason she'd expected Dreuer to wait outside, hovering under an umbrella like a bat, but no, he rings the doorbell. Her heart pounds and she almost trips over her (modest, sensible) heels as she rushes to answer it. "Dreuer," Helaena greets him, beaming. "I'm sorry, give me- give me just a moment to grab my coat." He looks... truly, unfairly attractive, all of the time. But tonight... He's still wearing his coat, tasteful black wool, a fine scarf that almost matches her dress, but... He looks like he made an effort, and that makes her want to do something stupid, like invite him inside, or kiss him, or say hang the concert, would he like to come inside and maybe bend her over a flat surface of his choice? Get it together, girl. He always looks nice, you're used to that. But he doesn't wear aftershave all the time. God help her.

The last time he saw her dressed up was over a month ago, when she had meticulously put together her Halloween costume to look like Helen of Troy. That image had kept him awake at night more times than he was willing to admit. This, to him, surpassed that. The colour of her dress suited her perfectly, almost a direct colour match to the scarf he had chosen. The waist hugs her curves and perhaps if he looked for long enough he could count the freckles on her breasts. He would dearly love to. He swallows as he looks back up to meet her eyes. “You um…” be normal… “… you look lovely.” You overshadow every other woman who would dare to set foot in that hall tonight. His tail shivers as it tucks against his leg. “Thank you for coming with me.”

She blushes furiously as his eyes linger on the curves put on display by the drape of the fabric. There's a reason she's worn this dress on more than one date. You don't know this is a date. But it feels like a date. "Thank you. You clean up rather nicely, too." That's putting it mildly, you shouldn't be allowed to wear aftershave, it's bad for my sanity. "And of course, Dreuer. I enjoy your company, remember?" Latin arias did sound lovely, but they weren't why she'd spent an hour wrestling with her hair, why her heart was pounding, why she couldn't stop thinking about the way his voice might sound groaned into her ear. She ducks inside her apartment to grab her coat and purse, already laid out, not bothering with gloves or a scarf for a literal walk across the street. "Shall we?"

He offers his arm, old fashioned in his mannerisms but polite, as he was always raised to be in the presence of better company. It’s a dry evening, if not awfully cold. Blessedly the journey across Teviot Place is short, to introduce them soon enough into the golden light and delightful warmth of the classics department atrium. The marbles are all decked with twinkling lights, and the room has been dressed beautifully. The stairs up to the offices and lecture halls are out of bounds as they prepare to host the choir. They are immediately accosted by an eager student ambassador with a glass of mulled wine and a minced pie each. Dreuer can’t help the light laugh in his throat. “They’re keen… may I take your coat?” He offers, reaching out a hand while juggling the wine and sweet pastry in the other.

His arm in hers may be an old fashioned gesture, but it's one she enjoys. It's also a sharp reminder of their difference in height. Helaena's never been a tall woman, but she barely reaches past Dreuer's shoulder. The atrium looks beautiful, but she barely notices, caught up in the realization Dreuer is wearing a suit, simple but well-fitted. He looks... downright edible. It's not okay. Blistering bloody hell. Someone shoves something into her hands, a glass and a plate, then turns away before she can blink or say no thank you, she's really not that fond of- nope, they're gone. "My coat?" she echoes, rather unintelligently. His own is already draped over his arm, along with that scarf she desperately wants to touch, to figure out if it's as soft as it looks. "Um, yes, thank you, I'd appreciate that." Helaena fumbles a little getting the dark blue wool unbuttoned and off her shoulders with her hands full, but she manages. It's incredible how clumsy she can get with the eyes of a man she's hopelessly crushing on sparkling with mirth as they meet hers, something happy, almost fond in them as he looks at her. "Thank you," she repeats, because she has no idea what else to say.

How is he supposed to survive the night when she looks like that? Fuck. He busies himself with taking their coats somewhere safe, and sticks his head out of the doors long enough to suck on his vape and take the edge off the rising panic in his heart. He could do this. He owed her friendship, not to leer at her in such a figure hugging dress. It’s already embarrassing how quick he falls for her. She undoubtedly sees him as some elderly creature she’s taking care of. She’ll go home to her family and tell them all about the frail old man she is now spending her time with. Keep it together, Wildfel. He knocks back his mulled wine in one go for good measure, and takes another so it’s not dreadfully suspicious. The room is full of people wanting to accost him, to talk about the department or the academic year in progress, or his research or his book publications. It’s like a minefield of tedious bullshit as he tries to make his way back to Helaena. Undoubtedly there are plenty of people in the room who know and recognise her from her cafe. She single handedly keeps the classics department alive some days after all.

She's caught between two grad students that like to use the calm of her cafe to study during crunch times, asking how she's doing, and what are her plans for Christmas, and will the cafe be open as normal during finals week, and wow she looks so different when she's not wearing an apron! Helaena smiles even though she's internally screaming. They're perfectly lovely, good kids, but hearing how they're unable to picture her as anything but a tea lady is not helping. "I'm sorry, Stephen, but I came here with professor Wildfel, I should really try and find him before the concert starts. Say hi to your mum from me, okay? It was so lovely to meet her last she came down. And I'll see you on Monday, Rose, take care!" She finally makes her escape with a relieved sigh, but she's so short she can't see Dreuer anywhere. Her scant two inches of heel isn't helping in the slightest. Screw whatever genetics said Forster women have to be tiny, she swears internally. It's also loud enough with the constant drone of polite conversation that calling out for him would achieve nothing but make herself look like an impolite freak. Then, another regular catches her eye and comes over, full of polite chatter and thinly veiled allusions to their own academic accomplishments. "Hello, William," she greets him, resigned to her fate. Help, she screams internally. Networking was one of the things she hated most about academia.

Dekarios was a pleasant enough colleague but he never stopped *talking*. It took a well timed interjection and diversion from another, well travelled colleague to draw Gale’s attention. This allowed Dreuer to make a run for it while the professor’s back was turnes. He sidestepped an enquiry from the dean and saw off another tenacious colleague with an intimidating glare before searching the room. There she is. A vision too perfect for such a dreary night in Edinburgh. She looks as though Old Hollywood is calling her name. The man she’s talking to is traditionally handsome, well dressed and very pleasant. Dreuer knows him, it’s one of his own postgraduate MA students. His tail shivers like a rattlesnake as he contemplates picking up a canapé from a passing tray and driving a cocktail stick into the bastard’s eye. He and Laena looked very lovely stood next to one another and it pissed Dreuer off. Be he moves away eventually, and Dreuer makes his way at last to Helaena’s side. He opens his mouth to speak but is immediately silenced by a call for quiet from the choir on the stairs. His tail shivered again irritably.

Finally, finally she catches sight of Dreuer, looking... angry? "I'm sorry, William, I think I just saw my _date_, I'll have to go find him before the concert begins." The quite persistent postgrad gets the hint, ducks out with a too-charming smile and a promise to return to her cafe, soon. For her company in addition to the excellent baked goods, of course. Helaena just barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. Men never changed, did they? William might be about her age, pleasant, handsome, clearly born into privilege. He is also incredibly boring, overly fond of his own voice, clearly considered himself superior to a tea lady, if a pretty one, and generally full of himself. Good enough for a bit of fun, not for introducing to your mum, she can just hear him tell his equally insufferable friends. As if, even before Dreuer. Wait, before Dreuer? There is no Dreuer, she's not even sure they're on a date. Would she like it to be? Of course. But she can't just make it unilaterally so. She's mostly composed herself, burying her irritation, by the time Dreuer approaches, but it's a close thing. "Hello," she opens her mouth to say, or perhaps to ask if William had personally offended him somehow, but then there's a call for quiet, and simply reaches out to squeeze his arm instead.

The violent desire fades, but the desire to purposefully fail the little shit still lingers. Young, handsome, evidently wealthy… a much better prospect than Dreuer could ever hope to be, and he knew well enough that look in the man’s eye - a look of desire that would benefit from having a few teeth broken. He almost double takes at the hand on his arm, but eventually smiles. Perhaps she had missed him while he had swerved and sidestepped his colleagues… maybe she was worried about him. She thinks you’re a foolish old man that needs guiding. He clears his throat as the dean makes a small speech about the department, mentions the academic year and its successes, and praises the students and catering staff. Someone with a tray passes around glasses of prosecco, which Dreuer accepts. And then, without further ado, the choir began to sing. Rising, clear arias that fill the domed hall in light, beautiful music.

The singing is beautiful, but her focus is on Dreuer. Her mulled wine was abandoned when it grew lukewarm, only half gone, so she accepts a glass of prosecco as well. Hmm, just a bit too sweet, but it'll do. "Are you okay?" Helaena whispers, leaning close enough she's all but assaulted with the far-too-appealing scent of Dreuer's aftershave. Her eyes almost flutter shut, but she manages to resist. Barely. She takes a healthy sip from her flute to gather herself. Surely alcohol will help. This is an excellent plan that could in no way backfire.

Her hand on his arm Is warm and comforting. His tail shifts and twitches beside his ankle with the desire to do something it hasn’t done in years and latch onto someone else’s ankle. He reconciles by letting it curl around his own. The wine is far too sweet. He had heard whispers of a much nicer red circulating later in the evening, once the fizz was gone. He drinks quickly to get the bubbles out of the way. He applauds politely after each song, and casts an occasional sideways glance at Helaena. She always looks perfect, of course, but the wine warming his blood was cementing her rather firmly in his mind as the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. His tail squeezes his ankle. Another song and another round of applause. He leans down to talk to Helaena as soon as the songs quieten to ambient noise. “I hope you like it here… they are a good choir, no?” He asks, draining the very last dregs from his glass. “… not a fan of the wine, mind you.”

She chuckles fondly. "I somehow had you pegged as an enjoyer of a drier vintage." The prosecco is far from the worst she's had. She finishes off her glass with a soft ah, and then hurriedly checks the lip of the glass for stains from her rarely-worn lipstick. Nope, all clear. "The choir is lovely, Dreuer. And if the wine doesn't suit us, well... I have much better back in the cafe." Is it an invitation? Maybe. If he wants it to be. Helaena sways just slightly into his space for a moment, her bare shoulder brushing his sleeve. She had to consciously resist the urge to lean against him, the way she might if he was her partner. He's not yours. "I'm glad to see I've not lost the entirety of my skill in latin. My origins have not quite rusted away under the influence of too much ancient Greek. I thought I'd be Roman history for quite some time, you know. Well, Roman Spain, specifically, but still. Or perhaps the Carthaginians. I was quite enamored with the Second Punic War."

“I’ve always admired the pure linguists.” He murmurs. “I am not so good with languages outside of Greek, English… German. Barely passable Italian.” He had always been terrible at Italian to the point his mother in law asked him never to speak it again. “I prefer… myth and legend. The things that people imagine and create to fill the gaps that history leaves behind.” He loves a good story. For all his miserable exterior, Dreuer adores humanity more than anything else. He loves what man can create, the things that grow from cautionary tales, bumps in the night and difficult questions on unremarkable Sundays. People are fascinating, beautiful creatures. He is happy to observe humanity from a safe distance, where he cannot be bruised by it. “I’m no fan of the fizzy wines. Champagne gives me a stomach ache.” He grumbles. “Give me a full bodied red any day… keep your eye out for the red wine.”

"Understood." And noted, for if it ever became relevant. "I'm hardly a pure linguist, my area of study just necessitated a few different languages, to do so adequately. Al-Andalus was a bit of a melting pot, as most places with a foreign occupier will tend to be. A few dialects of Spanish and Arabic and Latin on top are necessary to even get started. "But I always enjoyed studying them. I like to think I'm reasonably good at it. Oh, and my mum's side is Welsh, so I know how to call you a piss-drinking toad in a Celtic language, should that ever be necessary. The Celts truly know how to insult." Helaena's Welsh isn't... good. She really ought to make a bigger effort, instead of teaching herself Ancient Greek between lunch rushes. "And legends and myths are beautiful. Any story that can still affects us over two and a half millennia later is notable just for that, beyond the beauty of its prose or the miracle of its preservation."

Listening to her is easy. Her enthusiasm and her passion for the old civilisations, her knowledge so easily pulled from her mind to her lips. Dreuer’s tail unwinds to swish in a keen metronome behind him. He laughs, averting his gaze to his feet as anxiety rises in his blood with the warmth in his cheeks. What is he doing? “That is why I love myth. You can never be certain about a good story, you do not need archaeology to measure the worth of a good tale if it still lifts your heart thousands of years later. Finally he spots the red wine. He needs to chase these final feelings of anxiety, of fire and strange discomfort where the conflicting feelings meet. He reaches to take a glass, and takes a sip, instantly wincing. “God every single wine this evening has been a misery.”

She bursts into laughter, slightly too loud for the setting. "Dreuer, I can't decide if you have the worst luck, or if you're simply an incorrigible snob." Helaena accepts another glass of bubbles herself, happy to let the wine turn her light and warm and fizzy. She's not nearly as picky. "So, tell me, Greek and English are obvious, why Italian and German?" Her own languages are logical enough. English and Welsh, Spanish, Latin and Arabic from her studies, (refreshed) Ancient Greek for Dreuer, some Tamazight, a smattering of other tongues spoken in Medieval Iberia... But there's no reason Dreuer would need Italian or German as a classicist.

He pulls a face at the wine but doesn’t comment on it again. She’s right, he is a bit of a snob - but only really about wine. He’s the kind of man who can eat a two day old big mac without complaint but will turn up his nose at a cheap merlot. “Hm? Oh… Anthony was Italian.” He says offhand. “I was never very good at it. Though I know several words for imbecile now. And bastard.” He smiles slightly at the memory of decades’ worth of chastisements. “That is why Italian… and German is my first language.”

Italian makes sense, then... It's rare she's met an Italian who could resist the urge to use their native language's creative range of insults. Then... "Wait, German is your first language?" Why had she never thought to ask? About his family, his origin, even his damn nationality. A million questions about interpretations of Plato, so few about his life story. Oh god, I'm a self-absorbed bitch, she laments. How did I not know that?

He doesn’t care. In fact he doesn’t even think about it at all. Why would it come up when he has what might be passable as an English accent? “Yes.” He says with a small smile. Maybe he just enjoys being mysterious. Maybe the terrible wine is making him more mischievous. “I was born in Germany. I moved here when I was eighteen.”

"Which part of Germany?" It is a rather large country. And now she realizes how much she doesn't know she wants to know _everything_. "Do you still have family there? Why did you move over? Were you always in Edinburgh or did you live elsewhere in the UK first?" Helaena takes a healthy sip from her prosecco, then another, as she realizes she should probably give the poor man a chance to answer. It's not his fault you never asked, dumbass. "Sorry," she apologizes pathetically. "I'm just... I didn't realize."

She has so many questions, and it flusters him somewhat. He drops one or two threads of conversation but not for lack of trying. “I a… uh… Berlin.” He says, grasping onto what he could remember. He sips the wine again and regrets it. “But my family originally were from Oderwitz, my father moved to West Berlin for work in the late fifties, before it became impassable. I think my eldest brother was… born… maybe four years later?” He frowns at the wine in his glass. “I came here f-“ “Professor! I didn’t think you came to these events any more…” “… do you still have your cat?” “How is the Delphi excavation going?” … fucks sake. Oh to imagine a world free of bad wine and interruptions.

Her lips thin into a line of irritation as they are interrupted, again. Tonight, Helaena feels selfish. She feels indulgent. She feels just a little stupid. She feels absolutely no need to be polite, or, even worse, to network. I don't care what you have to say. Go away. Leave us alone. "Dreuer, I was wondering if you'd be willing to escort me home. I'm afraid my feet are getting tired, and Sunday brunch rushes wait for no one." The fact that she's taken the next day off in anticipation of a late night is entirely irrelevant.

Thank fuck, she’s pulling him back. He turns on his heel without excusing himself from conversation. “Leave? Yes please… do you have any better wine than this at the café?” He asks, abandoning his half drunk glass of shiraz… or piss water or whatever it is.

She scoffs, mock offended, her grin teasing as she looks up at him. “Do I look like the type to stock terrible wine, Dreuer?” Helaena does have several different full bodied reds she thinks Dreuer might like, they serve wine with lunch and for the occasional evening services, but that’s entirely besides the point of getting him _alone_, in the blissful quiet and privacy of her space. “If you think so, well… might be best to take your chances with the shiraz.” The wine she’s had herself is warming her blood, lowering her anxieties. She’s lucid, still, very much so, but just daring enough to touch his arm, to stand a bit too close, to be anything less than perfectly polite to the never ending avalanche of people.

You’re not the type to do anything terrible you are perfect. You are perfect. “… no one should have to take their chances with the shiraz.” She might have a malbec hiding somewhere. He’d seen it on the menu before, an Argentinian malbec… that sounded perfect. Especially in her company. He puts his hand over hers where it rests on his arm. “I’ll get your coat, head for the door, we shall make our escape.” He doesn’t say goodbye to the people he is talking to. He heads directly for the cloakroom, once again ignoring several colleagues.

God, I could love you so easily. Helaena blinks, taking a moment to absorb that, even as he's already making a beeline for the cloakroom. She smiles, too pleased to be truly apologetic, at the people Dreuer just abandoned, and heads for the exit, only slightly slowed by her shoes. Is it strange she finds his downright apathy for socialization downright charming? It's so incredibly relatable, so Dreuer, she can't help but let it endear him to her even further. "My knight in shining armor," she greets him when he emerges with their coats over his arm. "Thank you. I would have lost my mind if Dean Ravengard started about his rationalization scheme again."

Oh he liked that. Knight in shining armour. He hands her her coat when he meets her at the door. “Don’t get him talking he’s fucking infuriating. Put your coat on quick it sounds like it’s raining.” He looks behind them. “Oh fuck it’s Dekarios, if he starts talking we will be here all night fuck the coat… go...” He hurries for the door, out into what can only be described as a freezing deluge of rain.

She lets out a truly silly-sounding little squeak of surprise as she makes it outside... and immediately gets showered with water from a drain pipe that seems to fall straight down the back of the collar of her still-unbuttoned coat. "Oh, _fuck!_" Helaena cries. She is very grateful she was vain enough to wear her contacts, so she can actually see, but the rain is blurring... everything. It's also freezing, and because it's Edinburgh in November, pitch dark. "Dreuer, should we make a run for it?" she calls. "I need to- fuck why do I never bring a damn umbrella?!"

“I’ve got you… go!” He holds his coat up over them both to cover them as they sprint across the road, the rain falling like stars beneath the bright glow of the streetlights. He keeps his coat above them, though the unforgiving rain billows underneath it. They’ll likely be soaked through by the time they get into the sleeping cafe.

She can't help but laugh, the situation's just so stupid, and she's a little drunk, still, and Dreuer's arm is warm and secure against her side, and she's happy, so incredibly happy, because she's with him. Once they finally reach the imperfect cover of the cafe's awning, Helaena fumbles in her purse for her keys, instinctively reaching for the one to the walk-up before she remembers. "Sorry, sorry, I'll get us inside in a moment, I promise," she chuckles, finally managing to fit key to hole and turn, twisting her wrist just-so to get the ancient doorjamb unstuck. The master light switch is behind the counter, the clean, quiet space pitch black to her poor, human eyes. Still, she knows the place like the back of her own hand. Helaena smiles up at him, soaked to the bone and thrilled to be there. "So, what did I lure you away with? It was a promise of decent wine, wasn't it?"

“Helaena if you do not open this door we may well drown!” He raises his voice over the wind, but also a little bit for dramatic effect. Stepping into the cosy dark of the cafe feels like breaking the rules. Like being in school classrooms at night as a child. He’s soaked, and he pulls his hair free of its tether to hang lank around his cheeks. “Wine… yes. And much more favourable company.”

Much more favorable company. Her cheeks heat despite the chill of the rain. The fact he just took his hair down, something she's never seen before, she hadn't realized it was that long, isn't helping. "I'll, um. I'll get us some towels. And some wine." And maybe a midnight snack, because why the fuck not. Helaena reaches for the box of matches kept in the drawer of the hostess station. "Here, light a few of the candles, would you?" They could just turn on the lights... But candles seem much more appropriate right now. "Now, Dreuer, let me tell you one of the worst kept secrets of the hospitality business. There are always leftovers. My grocery budget is close to nothing. But right now, I'm feeling a pudding. Any requests?"

“Is the power off? Oop…” He walks into a table, circumnavigating it carefully to find candles to light. His ears and tail perk when she speaks, the flickering light of the candles slowly growing as he lights more. “What puddings are there… oh do you still have that offensively chocolate thing?” He asks, moving the candles around his usual spot. The flames flicker in the raindrops on the windows. “That was really lovely… you have a real talent.”

"Offensively chocolate- you mean the gateau marcel?" She's been feeding Dreuer samples and various experiments she's unsure if should be added to the menu. Nothing _bad_, of course... But she still interrogates him on their success, anyway. "And then for the wine... the malbec for you, I presume?" She digs out an open bottle of a good pinot grigio they serve by the glass for herself. If Dreuer paid attention, the backlighting of the fridge would give away that the power is, in fact, still on... But if he doesn't say anything, she won't either. Thankfully, Jen left the hand towels in the right spot, so they're easy enough to find even in the gloom. She sighs in defeat as she looks up at the rack of wine glasses, one of the few things in the bar she can't easily reach. It's rarely a problem, as all her employees are taller than her. "Dreuer? Would you mind giving me a hand? I can't reach the glasses." Stupid tall, handsome professors with their long, slender limbs...

he’s cold to his bones but it does not bother him. The buzz of the wine in his blood is keeping him delightfully warm. He walks into the coffee table again before managing to circumnavigate it carefully, his tail shivering. “It feels as though I am breaking some sort of unspoken rule, stepping behind the counter.” He does take a moment to have a look around. The secret underbelly of the cafe is something he’s never seen before. But not for long. Helaena asked for his help and, well, *he was her knight in shining armour*. He puts one hand on her shoulder as he reaches above her to pluck down two wine glasses by the stem. “Aha.” His little triumphant noise barks from his chest. “Helaena may I ask you a favour? Might I vape inside, it’s odourless… if I go out there I’m going to get blustered to Glasgow.”

"Oh dear me, what will be next? Inviting you into the kitchen?" Helaena teases. The breath leaves her body in a soft gasp as his body brackets hers from the back, the better part of a foot taller, his hand resting on her bare shoulder as he- right, the glasses. "Thank you." She clears her throat, tries to gather herself. "And, um. Of course, that's. That's fine. Just don't tell the city council, or they might revoke my license," she jokes weakly. Fucking hell, he's not even touching her apart from his hand, and she's acting like he saw her naked. Now there's an idea. "Would you, um. Would you mind uncorking the red? I think I need to wring out my hair." The thick mane of curls is all but fully soaked through, her careful updo beyond saving. Thank fuck I went for waterproof makeup or I'd look like a racoon. "I put towels on the counter. We should, we should dry off, right?"

Was it entirely wild of him to want to wring out her hair for her? Yes, Dreuer. Stop reaching for excuses. “We should dry off. I don’t want you to get sick.” He takes the red and the two glasses in his hand back to the counter. He shrugs off his jacket, warm from the wine and the race across the road, and pushes up his sleeves. The glasses and bottle are set on the table. The towel is draped around his shoulders. The slight damp of his shirt makes it cling to his back. He sucks on his vape, exhaling with a near silent little groan. “That’s better.”

She tries not to stare. She really does. It's not her fault if she goes a little slack-jawed watching him remove his suit jacket, revealing the damp white shirt beneath, the shadows of ridges visible where cotton pressed against skin. And then Dreuer rolls his sleeves. Christ on a bike. He says something, but all Helaena gets out is a tiny squeak quickly covered by a hum of acknowledgement before she turns away, trying to keep herself from continuing to stare at all of _that_. It's a shame he brought the glasses over and she's not quite drunk enough to drink straight from the bottle of white. She could use it. The task of undoing her hair is near automatic, the clink-clink-clink of pins hitting the counter a soothing background to the monotony of unraveling the damp tresses so they can dry properly. Her hair is one of the few true things she allows herself to be vain about, a near-untamable mane of thick, light brown curls, long enough to each her waist if she leaves it down, which she very rarely does. If it's soaked, it almost hits her hips. Right now, the damp locks near her navel. It's a pain in the ass, but when everything falls into place _just so_, it makes her feel beautiful. Few enough things do that. She winces as she runs the towel through her hair. Terrycloth really isn't good for it. Too much friction.

It feels like observing something sacred. Something he should not bear witness to, as she looses her curls, wet from the storm, against the contours of her back. He feels a warmth low in his gut he had been certain was long dead in him. He uncorks the wine with perhaps a little more vivacity than is necessary. He takes a swig from the bottle, perhaps already aligned with her thoughts, before pouring himself a glass. His own sodden curls trail forward into his line of vision. His tail shivers like a rattlesnake behind him. He clears his throat to damp it down as the smoke of his unscented vape puffs out of his nostrils. “I prefer the quiet.” He says. His voice is lower, far closer to a purr. “Not to disparage the talents of the choir… but I do like to be able to hear myself think.”

”I’ve always enjoyed the quiet. Hard to come by as the youngest of three, especially with my brother being who he is, but I did what I could. When I got a bit older, I began to appreciate the virtues of enjoying the quiet _together_, but sadly most of my friends are far more extroverted.” I like being quiet with you. I like being alone with you. I like it when we talk and the time seems to trickle away into nothing, and when we say nothing at all. I like you. Helaena has mostly managed to gather herself as she grabs her own bottle and sits down next to Dreuer. Then the wet tendrils of his hair frame his face just so, and she’s lost again. She hastily pours herself a glass of white, eager to keep her hands and eyes busy. God, his voice should be illegal. She’s still drunk enough keeping him talking at all costs sounds like an excellent plan. Helaena raises her glass in a toast, a wry smile lifting her lips. “Cheers, Dreuer. To finding some peace and quiet. And surviving the storm, without a single instance of being blown to Glasgow,” she teases. “Oh, and hopefully, to actually drinkable wine.”

“salut.” He raises his glass to her, his pale claws clutching the bowl of it to his palm, the stem protruding between his fingers. He sips - the wine is good. He has no notes. “… I’m the youngest of three as well.” He says after a pause. “Maybe that is the crux of it, growing up with older brothers shocks you into silence.”

”One brother and one sister for me. But Symon was enough of a pain to count for two, I’m sure.” Helaena has a drink of her own wine with a happy little moan of enjoyment. There’s a reason she keeps this one on the menu. Perhaps a bit light for the season, but she couldn’t care less if she tried. “Shoot, I forgot!” She rushes behind the counter to grab the plate she’d prepped, a thick slice of gateau marcel with two dessert forks. “I don’t care if it’s a quiet one, any party worth having has cake,” she argues, before taking a rather less than demure bite of the honestly excellent cake, groaning as the richness of the chocolate explodes on her tongue. She’s too tipsy and happy and content to even think of if she should add it to the menu for next week, and she couldn’t be happier about it.

The sound she made at the taste of the wine shocks through him. The sound she makes when she tastes the gateau makes it worse. He moves cake around the plate but cannot bring himself to eat when his insides are roaring. “Hmh. Cake.” He says, attempting to distract himself. He manages one forkful, and something rational in the back of his mind suddenly slaps him. He cannot stay here all night. “I should think ahead if I am going to make it home.” He ruffles his fingers through his tangled hair. “May I borrow your phone? I will book a taxi… or… uber or whatever.” He draws in another puff of vape. The smoke. From his lips swirls in pretty white clouds.

He wants to leave already? “Ah, of course. Here, let me…” His phone has a bloody keypad, of course it doesn’t have Uber. Is it odd she finds his resistance to modern technology more charming than irritating? She finds almost everything he does charming by now. “Oh wow, the waits are… long. Here, put in your address, we’ll see how bad it is.” Is it bad she wants it to be long, so she can spend more time with him? Is it bad she doesn’t want to leave, not tonight, possibly not ever? Most of all, she wants him to want to stay. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. Simple as that.

he takes her phone and, having left his glasses at home, holds it at arms length to type in the address of his apartment. “Thank you… I’m not trying to run away, I promise, I just do not want you to be stuck with me. You did not sign up for the night shift on the geriatric ward.” It’s the first time he has eluded to their difference in age - to her anyway. He has lamented to Halsin only to be told how ridiculous he is.

Helaena sputters in confusion, and no small amount of offense. “Geriatric- Dreuer, what the actual fuck are you talking about? I’d never feel stuck with you, I quite enjoy your company, remember? I’ll never begrudge you the chance to go home to your own bed, and Fluff besides, but you’d be more than welcome if you decided to stay, for as long as you’d like. “Is that what you think? How you think I see you, and our friendship? Because that’s… that’s very disappointing to me. I thought you knew me better than that. But consider this me signing up for… honestly, the geriatric ward? I’d be surprised if you’re more than fifty.” She’d still be interested in him if he was. That ship has long sailed. Their age difference only bothers her inasmuch as she worries he considers her unserious or immature. She sips from her wine, because clearly more alcohol will fix this. “So no, Dreuer, I wouldn’t feel stuck with you under any circumstances. There is no part of our relationship that originates in obligation, at least on my part.”

He is a little taken aback by her sudden outburst. She is usually more reserved than this, and the sudden blast of flame from her does nothing to quell his own. When she falls silent he feels like a child chastised. “… I am forty seven actually.” Is all he can think to say, dull witted as he is drowned in red wine. He takes a long drink. “And I am glad. I am sorry I thought… perhaps you saw me as some sad, withering old widower deserving of little more than pity. And regardless… I was still glad of your company.” Too scared to even ask, in case she is scared away. “I’m sorry to upset you Helaena.”

”You thought- Well, that couldn’t be further from the truth.” Forty-seven. Nineteen years her senior. Does she care? Not particularly. Helaena glances his way, then back at her wine. She downs the last of her glass for a bit of liquid courage. “I think… I think you’re a good friend, and a brilliant scholar, and a surprisingly patient tutor. I think I enjoy your company, no matter what we’re doing, or if we’re doing anything at all. “That’s what I think. That’s how I see you. In case any further clarification was needed.” But what do you think? What do you want? “And I’m only upset you think of yourself that way. You are speaking very poorly of a man I happen to be very fond of.”

1

Scram ( durge: Dreuer )

marilewd

Close

He thinks of their studious afternoons, caught up in the cafe if quiet or hidden in her apartment when it’s busy. He thinks of his Wednesday afternoon lectures. Of catching her eye as he explains some obscure critique of Socrates or Euclides. He thinks of her hand in his own, walking through the rain. His heartbeat is loud in his ears. “For what it’s worth I think you are deeply knowledgeable, and you have a sharp and inquisitive mind not dulled by academia.” He drains his wine. “I think it is admirable to have pursued a career you clearly love, despite what I can only imagine might have been considerable pressure to remain crushed among the annals of history. You are…” He frowns. “… a light in my life I do not wish to lose.” Her phone buzzes on the table between them. The Uber driver is on her way.

A light in my life I do not wish to lose. How is she supposed to hear him say things like that and not want to kiss that almost-resigned look off his face, not want to cup his face and tell him in no uncertain terms exactly how much she wants to- Her phone buzzes. Gladys is ten minutes away! She’d rather it be ten hours. “Thank you.” She clears her throat, and sets her empty wine glass down on the coffee table, next to the half eaten cake. “That… it means a lot, to hear you say it. You might be the only person in academia to ever understand the choices I made, and…” You’re a light in my life, too. Every single day, I look forward to seeing you, and get disappointed if you aren’t there. “I should, um. I should walk you out, right? We… you might miss the car, otherwise.” Stay. Take me with you. Don’t go. She smooths her hands over her dress, the beautiful dress she’s only worn on a handful of dates, all with people she thought might finally be it, but weren’t. The dress she wore for him. “I’ll, um. I’ll get your coat.”

I want to stay. I want to spend the night with you. I am so tired of waking to an unoccupied bed. I want to stay… “Thank you.” He doesn’t look up at her. He can’t bear to. He fidgets with his vape instead to no consequence, rising to his feet and shrugging his jacket back over his shoulders. He finally looks up and his heart chokes. She is the most beautiful woman in the world and she doesn’t even know it.

I want you to stay. Stay right here, with me. I don’t want to be alone anymore. Their eyes meet for a flash, but even a flash is enough to give someone hope. “Dreuer, I-“ A persistent buzz. Gladys will be arriving in five minutes! She smiles, a bit sadly, and tosses on her own coat, not bothering to buttoning it, before following him out the door into the downpour. It might be even worse than when they escaped the concert. She shivers and huddles into the damp wool of her coat. The awning might shield from the worst of the rain, but it does nothing for the cold. “I have a question,” Helaena gets out. “And you don’t have to answer it. It’s very simple, really. Do you want to stay?” Her eyes flicker up to his, then down to his hands, his wonderful hands, the hands she’s grown so fond of holding, whatever the pretense behind it. Time to be brave. “Because I want you to stay, Dreuer.”

The rain is bitterly cold compared to the warmth and comfort of the café. Dreuer drags his still wet coat around his shoulders. It’s only warm when he looks into her eyes, and when she speaks it feels as though time stands still. As if the rain freezes in mid air, and the howl of the wind dies to nothing. All he can see is her. All he can hear is her. Her eyes are wide and pleading, and her words are plain, and direct. “Because I want you to stay, Dreuer.” “… Helaena…” his words catch. “… I wish I could. Truly… but I can’t. There has been too much wine between us.” And I cannot take advantage of that. I cannot let my heart run away with my head… God to take off that dress with his teeth would be the sweetest thing. The rain is near freezing. He steps closer. He can just hear the gasp of her breathing over the slam of his heart. He has never been so close to her before. Never looked into her eyes for so long, never let his gaze wander to her lips and consider how sweet her kiss must taste… He claims her mouth with his own before he has a chance to think. His left hand wraps around her back, against the coarse wool of her coat, as the rain-slick fingers of his right hand close instinctively against her cheek.

Finally, finally, finally. I knew he’d be a good kisser, she thinks deliriously, as she finally buries her hands in his hair, as she moans into his mouth, as she presses herself closer, closer, _closer_, there’s no way he can be close enough right now. It’s desperate and sweet all at once, frantic and calm, exhilarating and comforting. Kissing Dreuer feels as natural as breathing, as slipping into a perfectly fitting glove, as dawn in the east and dusk in the west. “Don’t stop,” she gasps when his lips leave hers for even a split second. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop…” She drags him in by his collar and kisses him until neither of them can breathe.

He doesn’t speak. He has no words. His hands are as desperate as hers, clutching to her, drawing her body against his own and feeling how every curve and every part of her pressed against every curve and every part of him. He wanted to devour her. To keep her for himself, to kiss her until the inevitable heat death of the universe. Short gasping breaths punctuate every parting of their lips, only for him to chase her down and kiss her again with a low, deep, resonating note of desire heavy in his throat. The tail lights of the Uber bathe them both in a warm, red glow.

She doesn’t even notice until the first impatient honk of the driver, swept out to sea on the wave of desire Dreuer started with those damnable hands, those bloody _lips_, his body pressed against hers, a tide that’s been building for months, but she’s never been more thrilled to let herself drown. Maybe it’s not the first honk. “Stay,” Helaena urges, a simple plea repeated with her lips on his, her hands loath to let go of him. “Stay, please, I’m not, I know I won’t regret this, but we don’t have to do anything, just please, stay.” Of course she wants him. On one of the couches in the cafe, bent over a table, in the hallway of her flat, in her bed, she’s not picky, but she wants more. Still, if his objection is to the alcohol in both their blood, she’ll wait. She could happily do nothing but kiss him all night. Another honk, and a hint of panic widens her eyes. “Would you?” Please don’t go.

The sweetness of pinot Grigio is a dance on her lips, with the bitter aftertaste of rich chocolate. But he cannot stay. Even as she pleads. He would not be able to stop himself from biting into her soft flesh, would not stop himself from ruining her. She is too good to be ruined. The driver honks again and the rain seems to begin falling once more. The wind is howling. The night is thick and cold and unpleasant. He had to get out before he never left. “Goodnight… Helaena.” His words rumble in his throat, touched with a distant, trembling worry. Not like this. She deserved better than this. Stepping back from her feels like a lesion carved into his chest - so he makes it quick, and makes for the back of the car without another word.

Goodnight. That’s it? That’s all he has to say? She stands there, dumbfounded, staring after the car, until well after it leaves her line of sight. The man she may or may not be in severe danger of falling in love with, if she hasn’t already, just kissed her like his life depended on it, and then he left. We’ve both been drinking, she tells herself as she cleans up the cafe in a haze, as she locks up and heads up to her empty apartment. Not even Ros is there, she’d asked Jen to take her for the night. We might have regretted it. It might be for the best, she argues as she slips out of the dress she wore for him, as she washes her face clean of the makeup she wore to feel beautiful. I’ll speak to him soon. It’ll be fine, she hopes as she tucks herself into a cold, empty bed, a bed she’s sick of waking up in every day, lonely and alone. Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Your ride has ended. Please leave Gladys a review! Please don’t let me have screwed this up beyond repair.