A Latte is not Coffee - Fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
scifi_muses
Oct. 25th, 2009 05:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
open_flameCharacter: Liz Sherman
Fandom: Hellboy
Rating: PG (language)
Word Count: 546
Prompt:scifi_muses vol2.week12
Dean: Your half-caf, double vanilla latte is getting cold over here, Francis.
Setting: Hellboy Movie
AN: Liz makes fun of Myers for his wussy coffee choice. Lots of thinky Liz, she doesn’t like Myers until he makes her laugh.
Coffee? He wants to go out for coffee. I just blew up the hospital I’ve lived at for the past several months, killing people who trusted me to stay in control, and the new guy wants to take me out for coffee.
Coffee’s not going to fix anything. All those people are still dead, I’m still a danger to everyone around me, and Red still has that wounded puppy look in his eyes, even now, months later. He’s still throwing things through walls, still balking at authority, still acting like a spoiled brat. Coffee won’t do shit to fix any of that.
It is better than sitting around here waiting for Red to tell me things I don’t know how to deal with, though. Why is it so awkward with him now? I miss the way it used to be. I miss watching movies and eating horrible food and I even miss him insisting on training me to use my fire as a weapon. I don’t want to be a weapon, but it was nice to have someone…anyone not afraid of me. He’s the only one, the only one I’ve ever met that didn’t flinch when I went up in flames. Broom tries but…I can see it in his eyes; that fear that I’ll lose control and kill everyone unfortunate enough to be around me. It’s not an irrational fear, I have a horrible track record with those sorts of things.
It’s a cold ride, I figured Myers would actually have a car. A Moped is a horrible way for 2 people to get around. By the time we get to the coffee shop I’m cold and tired and my jacket is soaking wet. Top it off with the fact that it’s one of those horrible espresso bars. Is it too much to ask that one place in this crappy city has decent black drip coffee?
I wonder what Myers is ordering? I shouldn’t be so closed off, but he doesn’t know me. He thinks he can read a file and suddenly he’s an expert. Not likely. Impossible really. It is nice to be out, though. No one ever takes me outside anymore.
“Thanks.” I’m not talking much, but I should thank him for the coffee. I don’t feel like talking, I don’t feel like sharing and questions and answers or anything like that. I’m starting to wonder why I even agreed to come out with him in the first place. Maybe this fabled magical coffee with fix it.
I take a sip and nearly spit it out. Myers makes a similar face and I realize what’s happened.
“I’ve got yours.” He says as we switch cups.
“What the hell are you drinking?” I ask him as I try to get the sweet syrupiness out of my mouth.
“Vanilla Latte. Half-Caf.” He says, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.
“That’s not coffee, John.” I say as I start walking down the street. I can’t hold back my laughter as he hurry’s after me. He’s cute; kind of a dork, but sweet. Like that poor excuse for coffee he’s drinking. “Or should I call you Joanna?” I ask before I run my shoulder into his.
This night might not be so bad.
Fandom: Hellboy
Rating: PG (language)
Word Count: 546
Prompt:
scifi_muses vol2.week12Dean: Your half-caf, double vanilla latte is getting cold over here, Francis.
Setting: Hellboy Movie
AN: Liz makes fun of Myers for his wussy coffee choice. Lots of thinky Liz, she doesn’t like Myers until he makes her laugh.
Coffee? He wants to go out for coffee. I just blew up the hospital I’ve lived at for the past several months, killing people who trusted me to stay in control, and the new guy wants to take me out for coffee.
Coffee’s not going to fix anything. All those people are still dead, I’m still a danger to everyone around me, and Red still has that wounded puppy look in his eyes, even now, months later. He’s still throwing things through walls, still balking at authority, still acting like a spoiled brat. Coffee won’t do shit to fix any of that.
It is better than sitting around here waiting for Red to tell me things I don’t know how to deal with, though. Why is it so awkward with him now? I miss the way it used to be. I miss watching movies and eating horrible food and I even miss him insisting on training me to use my fire as a weapon. I don’t want to be a weapon, but it was nice to have someone…anyone not afraid of me. He’s the only one, the only one I’ve ever met that didn’t flinch when I went up in flames. Broom tries but…I can see it in his eyes; that fear that I’ll lose control and kill everyone unfortunate enough to be around me. It’s not an irrational fear, I have a horrible track record with those sorts of things.
It’s a cold ride, I figured Myers would actually have a car. A Moped is a horrible way for 2 people to get around. By the time we get to the coffee shop I’m cold and tired and my jacket is soaking wet. Top it off with the fact that it’s one of those horrible espresso bars. Is it too much to ask that one place in this crappy city has decent black drip coffee?
I wonder what Myers is ordering? I shouldn’t be so closed off, but he doesn’t know me. He thinks he can read a file and suddenly he’s an expert. Not likely. Impossible really. It is nice to be out, though. No one ever takes me outside anymore.
“Thanks.” I’m not talking much, but I should thank him for the coffee. I don’t feel like talking, I don’t feel like sharing and questions and answers or anything like that. I’m starting to wonder why I even agreed to come out with him in the first place. Maybe this fabled magical coffee with fix it.
I take a sip and nearly spit it out. Myers makes a similar face and I realize what’s happened.
“I’ve got yours.” He says as we switch cups.
“What the hell are you drinking?” I ask him as I try to get the sweet syrupiness out of my mouth.
“Vanilla Latte. Half-Caf.” He says, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.
“That’s not coffee, John.” I say as I start walking down the street. I can’t hold back my laughter as he hurry’s after me. He’s cute; kind of a dork, but sweet. Like that poor excuse for coffee he’s drinking. “Or should I call you Joanna?” I ask before I run my shoulder into his.
This night might not be so bad.
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