As previously mentioned...
I wrote a fanfiction. I'm posting it here for convenience. And somehow it became a Christmas-fic. Without my permission.
Title: A Winter Draught
Series: Weiss Kreuz/ Bartender
Word Count: 2,088
Summary: When Irony decides to smile, she won't stop until she's had a good laugh.
As he slipped into the quiet room, the man brushed water from his once-immaculate business suit and held back an exasperated grimace. The warm air helped, but only so much. Then the man behind the counter spoke, “Welcome to Eden Hall.”
It had been a trying week, topped off by the crowded, hurried rush of a city preparing for the holidays. It seemed like city people could sense the first breath of cold, and as soon as they scented the suggestion of snow, every pair of shoes within twenty miles of the city limits jostled to claim their section of pavement. It had been true for Chicago, and for München, and once again it was true of Tokyo. As Brad Crawford left the office building and joined the streams of people hastening toward shops, subways and trains home, the thought nagged him. He was already sour from answering to hours of mindless work (playing bodyguard to an empty-headed client was nothing if not tedious), and the holiday noise only made him more surly. And, of course, when Irony decided to smile, Crawford knew she wouldn’t stop until she had a good laugh. Any other day he would have expected it. He would have seen it coming, thanks to the perks of precognition. But Irony was especially fond of Christmas and had used her tricks-little annoyances throughout the week-to distract him. He was halfway down the block when the rain hit.
He had walked four more blocks before abandoning all hope of home and ducking into the first quiet street he came across in search of a dry place to wait. The downpour was blurring his glasses and making the crisp evening air unbearable. He cursed his faulty foresight for the second time as he wiped water from his face and nearly missed the single wooden door blending in with the innocuous surroundings. But apparently Irony had had her laugh, because the lights of a passing car reflected off of the metal sign hanging next to the entrance and caught his eye. He ducked under the extending frame and reached for the handle.
The petite, silver nameplate read simply, “Eden Hall.” Crawford scoffed inwardly at the pretentious title engraved so modestly in the metal. Eden, indeed. Nevertheless, any dry place was better than nothing, so he pushed in the heavy oak door and stepped inside.
It was a bar. Although he’d been quick to ridicule it, he couldn’t help but notice the quality. If there had been a single nail out of place, a squeaky floorboard or plastic molding, he would have leapt on it with all of the satisfaction of an art critic exposing a Monet forgery. Instead, he was greeted by finished mahogany, an impressive selection of quality liquors, and even an attractive bartender dressed in a French-collared shirt. There wasn’t a detail out of place, and, at that moment, Crawford disliked Eden Hall.
The only real comfort was that the bar had no other customers. He felt like a drowned rat and was pretty certain he could pass for one, if anyone else had been there to see him enter. He stepped down the threshold staircase and hung his overcoat on the provided stand next to it, but the water had already soaked through it and into his suit, making the wool heavy. It prickled through his cotton shirt, making his skin crawl. It was all the fault of that pathetic politician, Hashima. Stupid men full of stupid demands. Stay for my meetings, Crawford. Help Mr. Satou clean up, Crawford. The first time he asks me for coffee, I’ll be cleaning him up, he thought, grudgingly. He returned the bartender’s greeting with a polite smile and sat at the bar.
“It must be cold,” said the young man. His brown eyes offered quiet sympathy to his water-logged customer. “May I offer you a drink to help you warm up?” The smile made the bartender obnoxious.
“I don’t want anything right now,” Crawford answered. The bartender nodded.
“At least take a towel,” he said, holding one out. “You’ll catch a cold.” Crawford noted wryly that he must indeed look as mussed as he thought. Still, he couldn’t refute the bartender’s logic and accepted the proffered towel with a quiet word of thanks. He stripped off his jacket and tie, and draped them neatly over the stool next to him before drying off as well as he could with the towel. His damp cotton shirt clung to his skin as he wiped his foggy glasses clean. What a fitting finale to his week: his look was the picture of drunken salary man, dripping on the counter and using a bar towel to dry off. What was next?
“I hope for the sake of your health you’ll reconsider having a drink,” said the young man. “It’s free of charge.” Ah, thought Crawford. Ask a stupid question...
“All right,” he said aloud. “I’ll trust the bar’s judgment.” Matching courtesy with courtesy, he smiled at the bartender.
“In that case, something for the season.” Skilled hands began arranging the ingredients and various tools on the bar. Of course he’d choose a holiday drink. If, as some claimed, everyone had the potential for clairvoyance then bartenders had to be some of the closest to reaching that potential. Only, in this man’s case, he seemed to key in on the things that annoyed Crawford the most. The entire place was irritating. If he didn’t know he’d be walking right into a rainstorm, he would have walked out right then. And perhaps tipped him with a snide comment before going. But the rain was still pounding and the bar, though annoying, was still dry and a good deal warmer than the Ginza streets. So he watched as the bartender heated some brown liquid on a small burner and skillfully stirred in small brown pellets and some liquor. Finally, the young man ladled some of the steaming liquid into a mug and set it before his patron.
“Wassail mulled with sherry,” he announced. Once again, he gave a soft smiled. This time, the flare of annoyance lingered and Crawford realized why that particular gesture of courtesy caused him so much distaste. There was no hesitation, and yet no hanging persistence of salesmanship. He smiled openly and with the brevity of honest pleasure, just like a boy happy with a job well-done. What he offered was simply the truth. And although Crawford would deny it on pain of death, the truth was frightening. With the truth, there were no games between them. No games meant there were no rules and, although honesty was supposedly completely unmasked, in a way, it made everything unpredictable. Even on his worst days of cloudy precognition, when the future just wouldn’t become clear, even then, it didn’t leave him at such a loss.
“Is it not to your liking?” asked the young man. Crawford realized that he hadn’t moved. He murmured some excuse and put the mug to his lips.
The first sip was made of heat. Warm liquid, exotic spices, and another, deeper warmth from the alcohol that seeped in under his cold skin. The spiced cakes and cookies sold around Christmas were always too sugary. This was deep and rich, with a heady bite. He took another, longer sip. The aroma of apples and cinnamon, allspice, ginger, and brown sugar blended together with the sherry and helped to drown out the chill. He leaned on the bar and realized that up until this point, he had been sitting tensely, as if waiting for the next bad news.
Noticing the bartender still watching him, he replied, “It’s good.”
“I’m glad,” responded the man cheerfully. “You seemed like the type that would like something traditional. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, the companionship.”
Crawford tilted his head inquisitively. “Companionship?”
“A well-dressed man walking home alone in the rain seems like a lonely scene, don’t you agree?” asked the bartender.
“Fair enough,” replied the precognitive. “But how does a cup of cider provide companionship?”
“The birth of wassail comes from companionship. During the winter, families and villages would share it together as a way of fortifying themselves against the cold and loneliness of the season. They would gather around public bonfires or hearths and drink it from one communal bowl. In ancient times, people would even pour it onto the ground in their orchards to bring their trees to life in the coming Spring. So, you see, it’s a drink that symbolizes new beginnings and that place we call home.”
“That’s a romantic little tale,” chuckled Crawford.
“I think it is something that any person can appreciate,” said the other man. “Just as everyone, whether alone or in company, can enjoy a pleasant place to drink and forget their worries, every person wants a place to call home.”
“Is that so?”
The abrupt answer made the bartender pause, but only momentarily. “It’s nice to have a place where you don’t have to hold yourself to a standard, don’t you think?” he asked.
Crawford frowned into his mug. A place without standards… a place without rules. Of course, he understood what the man was implying. But understanding and believing never went hand-in-hand in life. Yet, how terrible would it be to stop playing the daily games of “Who knows more” and “Who has the better lie” for ten minutes? Life didn’t let anyone merely start over. It wasn’t possible. He glanced back up at the irritatingly straight-forward smile across from him again and scrutinized the man who mastered it so easily. Damn all bartenders and their pseudo-clairvoyance.
And yet...
The draught was good and the heat muddled all of those annoying thoughts, so he drank. Each swallow swept another prickling question out of his mind. Who cares what he thinks? Crawford grumbled to himself. He was aware of the warmth seeping into his body and the increased weight of the mug. But he didn’t have to see the bartender’s smile, or listen to his words, or any words. There were no complaints, obtuse men barking petty orders, or freezing rain. There was only a warm, drowsy haze and vague images of shadows swaying against a crackling orange light. The bartender might have said something more, but the orange glow filled his vision and he didn’t hear it.
The sound of popping wood faded as he opened his eyes. The fire had been a dream, but the heat was real. Someone, presumably the bartender, had moved him to the corner of the bar and covered him with a blanket. Judging by the stiff feeling of his dry shirt, he must have slept hours. In any case, he felt refreshed. Crawford sat up and found his glasses folded neatly on a tabletop next to him. He put them on and looked around. The bar was empty, but the lights were still on. Then he heard the tap of footsteps and the bartender emerged from a doorway leading deeper into the building. He was still smiling and holding Crawford’s suit jacket and tie. Both looked clean and dry.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said to Crawford. “I thought I’d take the opportunity. They were right on time, too: the rain has stopped.” He handed the tie, then the jacket to Crawford as the other man slipped them on in turn and adjusted them to his satisfaction.
They were going to wonder where he had been. It was well into night and he didn’t need precognition to know how his team (and that bulldozer Hashima) would react. But that seemed like a distant concern. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror of the back bar, where rows of bottles lined the wooden shelves. With his jacket buttoned and a little finger-combing of his hair, it was hard to tell he had been caught in the rain. He could still taste the faint flavor of spices that remained with the dreams of crackling flames. They’ll get over it, he thought. He must have caught the bartender’s eye, because the young man smiled slightly. He returned it, feeling strangely satisfied.
“I’ll be going, now.”
“Thank you for coming,” the bartender answered.
Retrieving his overcoat, Crawford made his way up the small set of stairs and pulled back the door. The night in that small street looked new, as if he were the first to venture into it. Christmas in Ginza did have a kind of charm, Crawford decided as he walked home.
Title: A Winter Draught
Series: Weiss Kreuz/ Bartender
Word Count: 2,088
Summary: When Irony decides to smile, she won't stop until she's had a good laugh.
As he slipped into the quiet room, the man brushed water from his once-immaculate business suit and held back an exasperated grimace. The warm air helped, but only so much. Then the man behind the counter spoke, “Welcome to Eden Hall.”
It had been a trying week, topped off by the crowded, hurried rush of a city preparing for the holidays. It seemed like city people could sense the first breath of cold, and as soon as they scented the suggestion of snow, every pair of shoes within twenty miles of the city limits jostled to claim their section of pavement. It had been true for Chicago, and for München, and once again it was true of Tokyo. As Brad Crawford left the office building and joined the streams of people hastening toward shops, subways and trains home, the thought nagged him. He was already sour from answering to hours of mindless work (playing bodyguard to an empty-headed client was nothing if not tedious), and the holiday noise only made him more surly. And, of course, when Irony decided to smile, Crawford knew she wouldn’t stop until she had a good laugh. Any other day he would have expected it. He would have seen it coming, thanks to the perks of precognition. But Irony was especially fond of Christmas and had used her tricks-little annoyances throughout the week-to distract him. He was halfway down the block when the rain hit.
He had walked four more blocks before abandoning all hope of home and ducking into the first quiet street he came across in search of a dry place to wait. The downpour was blurring his glasses and making the crisp evening air unbearable. He cursed his faulty foresight for the second time as he wiped water from his face and nearly missed the single wooden door blending in with the innocuous surroundings. But apparently Irony had had her laugh, because the lights of a passing car reflected off of the metal sign hanging next to the entrance and caught his eye. He ducked under the extending frame and reached for the handle.
The petite, silver nameplate read simply, “Eden Hall.” Crawford scoffed inwardly at the pretentious title engraved so modestly in the metal. Eden, indeed. Nevertheless, any dry place was better than nothing, so he pushed in the heavy oak door and stepped inside.
It was a bar. Although he’d been quick to ridicule it, he couldn’t help but notice the quality. If there had been a single nail out of place, a squeaky floorboard or plastic molding, he would have leapt on it with all of the satisfaction of an art critic exposing a Monet forgery. Instead, he was greeted by finished mahogany, an impressive selection of quality liquors, and even an attractive bartender dressed in a French-collared shirt. There wasn’t a detail out of place, and, at that moment, Crawford disliked Eden Hall.
The only real comfort was that the bar had no other customers. He felt like a drowned rat and was pretty certain he could pass for one, if anyone else had been there to see him enter. He stepped down the threshold staircase and hung his overcoat on the provided stand next to it, but the water had already soaked through it and into his suit, making the wool heavy. It prickled through his cotton shirt, making his skin crawl. It was all the fault of that pathetic politician, Hashima. Stupid men full of stupid demands. Stay for my meetings, Crawford. Help Mr. Satou clean up, Crawford. The first time he asks me for coffee, I’ll be cleaning him up, he thought, grudgingly. He returned the bartender’s greeting with a polite smile and sat at the bar.
“It must be cold,” said the young man. His brown eyes offered quiet sympathy to his water-logged customer. “May I offer you a drink to help you warm up?” The smile made the bartender obnoxious.
“I don’t want anything right now,” Crawford answered. The bartender nodded.
“At least take a towel,” he said, holding one out. “You’ll catch a cold.” Crawford noted wryly that he must indeed look as mussed as he thought. Still, he couldn’t refute the bartender’s logic and accepted the proffered towel with a quiet word of thanks. He stripped off his jacket and tie, and draped them neatly over the stool next to him before drying off as well as he could with the towel. His damp cotton shirt clung to his skin as he wiped his foggy glasses clean. What a fitting finale to his week: his look was the picture of drunken salary man, dripping on the counter and using a bar towel to dry off. What was next?
“I hope for the sake of your health you’ll reconsider having a drink,” said the young man. “It’s free of charge.” Ah, thought Crawford. Ask a stupid question...
“All right,” he said aloud. “I’ll trust the bar’s judgment.” Matching courtesy with courtesy, he smiled at the bartender.
“In that case, something for the season.” Skilled hands began arranging the ingredients and various tools on the bar. Of course he’d choose a holiday drink. If, as some claimed, everyone had the potential for clairvoyance then bartenders had to be some of the closest to reaching that potential. Only, in this man’s case, he seemed to key in on the things that annoyed Crawford the most. The entire place was irritating. If he didn’t know he’d be walking right into a rainstorm, he would have walked out right then. And perhaps tipped him with a snide comment before going. But the rain was still pounding and the bar, though annoying, was still dry and a good deal warmer than the Ginza streets. So he watched as the bartender heated some brown liquid on a small burner and skillfully stirred in small brown pellets and some liquor. Finally, the young man ladled some of the steaming liquid into a mug and set it before his patron.
“Wassail mulled with sherry,” he announced. Once again, he gave a soft smiled. This time, the flare of annoyance lingered and Crawford realized why that particular gesture of courtesy caused him so much distaste. There was no hesitation, and yet no hanging persistence of salesmanship. He smiled openly and with the brevity of honest pleasure, just like a boy happy with a job well-done. What he offered was simply the truth. And although Crawford would deny it on pain of death, the truth was frightening. With the truth, there were no games between them. No games meant there were no rules and, although honesty was supposedly completely unmasked, in a way, it made everything unpredictable. Even on his worst days of cloudy precognition, when the future just wouldn’t become clear, even then, it didn’t leave him at such a loss.
“Is it not to your liking?” asked the young man. Crawford realized that he hadn’t moved. He murmured some excuse and put the mug to his lips.
The first sip was made of heat. Warm liquid, exotic spices, and another, deeper warmth from the alcohol that seeped in under his cold skin. The spiced cakes and cookies sold around Christmas were always too sugary. This was deep and rich, with a heady bite. He took another, longer sip. The aroma of apples and cinnamon, allspice, ginger, and brown sugar blended together with the sherry and helped to drown out the chill. He leaned on the bar and realized that up until this point, he had been sitting tensely, as if waiting for the next bad news.
Noticing the bartender still watching him, he replied, “It’s good.”
“I’m glad,” responded the man cheerfully. “You seemed like the type that would like something traditional. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, the companionship.”
Crawford tilted his head inquisitively. “Companionship?”
“A well-dressed man walking home alone in the rain seems like a lonely scene, don’t you agree?” asked the bartender.
“Fair enough,” replied the precognitive. “But how does a cup of cider provide companionship?”
“The birth of wassail comes from companionship. During the winter, families and villages would share it together as a way of fortifying themselves against the cold and loneliness of the season. They would gather around public bonfires or hearths and drink it from one communal bowl. In ancient times, people would even pour it onto the ground in their orchards to bring their trees to life in the coming Spring. So, you see, it’s a drink that symbolizes new beginnings and that place we call home.”
“That’s a romantic little tale,” chuckled Crawford.
“I think it is something that any person can appreciate,” said the other man. “Just as everyone, whether alone or in company, can enjoy a pleasant place to drink and forget their worries, every person wants a place to call home.”
“Is that so?”
The abrupt answer made the bartender pause, but only momentarily. “It’s nice to have a place where you don’t have to hold yourself to a standard, don’t you think?” he asked.
Crawford frowned into his mug. A place without standards… a place without rules. Of course, he understood what the man was implying. But understanding and believing never went hand-in-hand in life. Yet, how terrible would it be to stop playing the daily games of “Who knows more” and “Who has the better lie” for ten minutes? Life didn’t let anyone merely start over. It wasn’t possible. He glanced back up at the irritatingly straight-forward smile across from him again and scrutinized the man who mastered it so easily. Damn all bartenders and their pseudo-clairvoyance.
And yet...
The draught was good and the heat muddled all of those annoying thoughts, so he drank. Each swallow swept another prickling question out of his mind. Who cares what he thinks? Crawford grumbled to himself. He was aware of the warmth seeping into his body and the increased weight of the mug. But he didn’t have to see the bartender’s smile, or listen to his words, or any words. There were no complaints, obtuse men barking petty orders, or freezing rain. There was only a warm, drowsy haze and vague images of shadows swaying against a crackling orange light. The bartender might have said something more, but the orange glow filled his vision and he didn’t hear it.
The sound of popping wood faded as he opened his eyes. The fire had been a dream, but the heat was real. Someone, presumably the bartender, had moved him to the corner of the bar and covered him with a blanket. Judging by the stiff feeling of his dry shirt, he must have slept hours. In any case, he felt refreshed. Crawford sat up and found his glasses folded neatly on a tabletop next to him. He put them on and looked around. The bar was empty, but the lights were still on. Then he heard the tap of footsteps and the bartender emerged from a doorway leading deeper into the building. He was still smiling and holding Crawford’s suit jacket and tie. Both looked clean and dry.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said to Crawford. “I thought I’d take the opportunity. They were right on time, too: the rain has stopped.” He handed the tie, then the jacket to Crawford as the other man slipped them on in turn and adjusted them to his satisfaction.
They were going to wonder where he had been. It was well into night and he didn’t need precognition to know how his team (and that bulldozer Hashima) would react. But that seemed like a distant concern. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror of the back bar, where rows of bottles lined the wooden shelves. With his jacket buttoned and a little finger-combing of his hair, it was hard to tell he had been caught in the rain. He could still taste the faint flavor of spices that remained with the dreams of crackling flames. They’ll get over it, he thought. He must have caught the bartender’s eye, because the young man smiled slightly. He returned it, feeling strangely satisfied.
“I’ll be going, now.”
“Thank you for coming,” the bartender answered.
Retrieving his overcoat, Crawford made his way up the small set of stairs and pulled back the door. The night in that small street looked new, as if he were the first to venture into it. Christmas in Ginza did have a kind of charm, Crawford decided as he walked home.