Fic: Pausa Caffè
Title: Pausa Caffè
Author: gileonnen
Play: Richard II
Characters: Aumerle, Henry Bolingbroke; mentions of previous Richard/Henry and Richard/Anne and unrequited Aumerle/Richard.
Warnings: Dodgy sexual ethics; awkward conversation; brief references to fatal car wrecks; Second Empire furniture
Rating: PG-13; language and references to sexuality
Summary: The very idea of being awake at eight is ludicrous enough, even without the added disaster of a coffee date with the man Edward's friend (or colleague, or whatever Richard is) has shagged to make a point.
Notes: Subsequent to Faculty Planning; concurrent with Absolution.
He's paying for his cheap, greasy Chinese food in the Student Union when he catches sight of Dr. Bolingbroke; the other man's sitting at a booth with some kid in a flannel shirt, the two of them bending their heads over a set of notebooks. Probably an advisory meeting, judging by the way the professor's finger traces a line (of equations?) and the student follows it with barely-concealed apprehension. Edward has been in dozens of those meetings by now, on both sides of the table; he knows what the first, fragile stages of a project look like, when the work's still nothing but a few feverish notes and a glimmer in the candidate's eye.
The register's drawer slides open; the cashier changes Edward's ten. He tips the bills and coins into his jacket pocket and grabs his brown paper bag, and he has every intention of making his way to his office for a quick lunch before his seminar.
"Dr. York."
Edward turns, smiling faintly. "Dr. Bolingbroke. I didn't want to interrupt your meeting."
The other man casts his student a glance that almost acknowledges the incursion on his time. "Nor do I, of course. Would you do me the honor of meeting me for coffee tomorrow morning?"
"If you can make time at eight," says Edward, with something approaching black humor. The very idea of being awake at eight is ludicrous enough, even without the added disaster of a coffee date with the man his friend (or colleague, or whatever the hell Richard is) has shagged to make a point. He would frankly rather gnaw his left wrist open. "I'm teaching from nine-thirty on. Sorry about that."
"Eight it is," answers Bolingbroke--far too easily, Edward thinks. He should hardly be surprised that the man is a morning person; he probably wakes with his children and escorts them personally to their bus stop. "That cafe a few streets north of campus? Pausa Caffè?" He mispronounces the Italian in a distinctly English fashion, but at least he has decent taste.
"Pausa Caffè, at eight," agrees Edward; he knows his Italian to be immaculate. "Enjoy your meeting."
"Enjoy your General Tso's." There is a smile twitching at the corner of Bolingbroke's lips, as though he dearly longs to break into a proper grin.
Edward considers remarking that it's not clever to comment on another man's lunch purchases--even when the contents are marked clearly on the bag. It smacks of over-familiarity, which in a near stranger approaches insolence. In the end, though, he bites his tongue and walks away.
It's the sort of observation that would have charmed him, if Richard had made it.
* * *
Pausa Caffè is a self-consciously bohemian place, all mismatched copper espresso machines and uneven stained-glass windows and imitation Second Empire furniture arranged hopefully into nooks that might encourage conversation. The cafe is always scented with cinnamon and caramel and chamomile, which gives it the overall aroma of a Yankee Candle shop.
It's the only place Edward knows that does a decent Turkish coffee, though, and so he's willing to grant it a few bohemian pretensions. He settles back into a particularly egregious-looking armchair, raising his brows at Bolingbroke and taking a long sip. It has never been clearer that, despite their long service on the same committee, they do not really know one another.
When it becomes apparent that the other man isn't about to break the silence, Edward offers, "I'm sorry about my colleague's behavior in our last meeting." The words don't flow readily; they sound too formal, like a speech that he's reading from a card. "Richard is--he's not really cut out for bureaucracy."
"No, I don't suppose that he is," answers Bolingbroke, rubbing thoughtfully at his wrist. There are bruises there, just over the knob of bone; Edward swallows as he watches that thumb sweep slow over darkened skin.
He raises his eyes to meet Bolingbroke's. They both know damn well how those bruises got there.
"Are you complaining about his unorthodox methods?" asks Edward, and even if the question is a needling one, it's gratifying to watch the tips of Bolingbroke's ears turn red.
After a fortifying sip of coffee, he answers, "I didn't ask you here to talk about Dr. Bordeaux." It's obviously a lie, but Edward accepts that and leans in to hear whatever Bolingbroke's excuse for a conversation is. "The mathematics department is being encouraged" and there's a particular emphasis on the word "to team-teach, and I saw you'd put in a proposal on Renaissance maths and sciences for next fall term."
"And you'd like to see if I'm open to team-teaching it." That sort of proposition calls for another coffee. "Not to sound condescending, but what do you envision your contribution being?"
"The practice," says Bolingbroke, as though it were obvious. He is worrying at his cuff again, which is unnecessarily distracting. "Learning to use the mathematical modes of the period, potentially even speculating on what developments might naturally follow--in a historical sense as well, of course," he says. "I would be glad to take social restrictions into account."
"And you think the undergraduates would enjoy learning outdated mathematics?"
"Foundational mathematics," says Bolingbroke. He slips so smoothly into the language of the course catalogue, with such a perfectly innocent expression, that Edward finds himself stifling a snort of laughter. When the other man's lip twitches up at the corner, Edward breaks into a laugh that shakes the dust motes from the curtains and makes them dance in the early-morning sunlight.
Hell, he thinks. They'll need a math credit, anyway. He can feel his smile, still broad and relieved and easy, and he offers his hand. "Buy me my next coffee, and you've got a deal."
Bolingbroke's hand is warm and dry in his, the skin cracked a little at the knuckles and at the webs of the fingers. The handshake lasts exactly as long as is proper, no more and no less.
"We'll need to revise the proposal," Edward says, when they have returned to their conversation nook with newly filled cups. "And redraft the syllabus, at some more godly hour of the day. I'll send you what I have--write down your e-mail address for me, would you?" He passes a little Moleskine notebook across the table, a pen neatly clipped to the front.
"Gladly."
"And now," says Edward, "You can stop pretending that you aren't here to talk about Richard."
For a fraction of a moment, the pen presses hard against the paper; a blot forms under the tip. "He hasn't returned my calls," says Bolingbroke eventually. "There's nothing to be said."
Edward has done enough manuscript work with Richard to read between--or across--the lines. "He gave you his number?" he asks.
Bolingbroke's jaw works briefly, which is answer enough. "He's in the directory."
"And so are you," says Edward, raising a brow. "He knows to ignore your number." Which is itself a sign of interest, he thinks; Not that I'd ever had that particular, questionable pleasure. He leans back against his chair and reflects that Sartre had furnished Hell with Second Empire furniture.
Henry sits back, as well, the notebook still closed in his palm. He's smart enough to catch the subtext of what's been said, which Edward supposes is something. He looks as though he is trying to solve a very difficult problem in his head, eyes just a little unfocused and lips slightly parted; the sunlight strikes auburn lights from his hair. "It's nothing to concern yourself with," he says at last. "I won't be drawn into it."
He passes the little Moleskine notebook back across the table, and Edward folds it in his fingers. It's still warm where it's been held, and he lets his fingers linger there before slipping the book into his briefcase with the page proofs. "Do you think he's trying to draw you?" asks Edward, when the silence has stretched a few seconds too long to be comfortable.
"I don't care what the damned man's trying to do," Henry snaps, setting down his cup hard enough to rattle the saucer. "I won't be manipulated by some smug bastard who thinks the whole damned world has got to run just the way he likes it--"
"He does have control issues," admits Edward. "And it's a cliché to say that he has them because he lost his wife in a car wreck, but I don't think that's too far from the truth."
The silence that follows is differently charged from the last; it's as though Bolingbroke is paying his respects. "Anne used to be a friend of mine," he says, subdued, with his eyes on his cup. "We'd see each other at concerts when we were at university, and she'd talk about designing a concert hall that was acoustically perfect for Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies--if she'd been a Catholic, Mary would have asked her to be Tom's godmother. She was an incredible woman." Edward isn't sure whether he means Anne or Mary; it doesn't matter which he means.
"I wish I'd known them," he says, and he means it. Richard never speaks of Anne except when he's drunk and maudlin; Edward knows what her favorite shade of yellow is, and how she liked her coffee, and what she wore to her wedding. He collects those little shards of stories as though he is an archaeologist trying to reassemble Richard's past.
Henry Bolingbroke comes from a part of Richard's life that will always be barred to Edward; their power games and petty feuds are all that lives on from those days. It's only right that they should snipe in meetings and swipe each other's numbers from the directory and manipulate the hell out of each other (and tie each other up and fuck each other; he can't forget that).
"Well," says Henry, clearing his throat. "Let's set a date to talk about that syllabus. Next week?"
"Friday? I'm off then."
"How's seven in the morning?" At Edward's faint, involuntary groan, Henry musters a smile. "Or noon?"
"Noon's better. I should be more than halfway human by eleven o'clock." He stands, and the other man stands as well. They are determined not to close their conversation on death, and yet Edward can feel it drawing inexorably to a close nonetheless.
"If this is your less than halfway human, I'd like to see what you're like at full capacity." Henry offers his hand to shake once more, and Edward takes it and shakes it firmly. The contact lasts a few seconds too long, but if it's meant to seek reassurance or to seal their new acquaintance, Edward finds he doesn't mind. "Have a good day, Dr. York."
"Call me Edward," he says, and feels genuinely at ease enough to mean it.
"Are we already exchanging Christian names? Then call me Henry."
"Good day, then, Henry." For an awkward moment, Edward pauses as though he's waiting to hear some kind of response--he's not sure what kind he expects, some parting pleasantry or a last-minute request to plead Henry's case to Richard. At any rate, Henry says nothing more, and after a pause Edward picks up his briefcase and starts out into the sunlight.
The streets are just beginning to fill with slow-crawling cars, the sidewalks to fill with students in sweatpants with the university logo emblazoned on the ass; all of the maple leaves are fringed with red and waving gently in the breeze. The air smells only faintly of exhaust, and mostly of coffee from the shop he's just left.
He'll tell Richard to call, and noninterference be damned. There are worse things he could do, he thinks, than get caught between Richard Bordeaux and Henry Bolingbroke.
Author: gileonnen
Play: Richard II
Characters: Aumerle, Henry Bolingbroke; mentions of previous Richard/Henry and Richard/Anne and unrequited Aumerle/Richard.
Warnings: Dodgy sexual ethics; awkward conversation; brief references to fatal car wrecks; Second Empire furniture
Rating: PG-13; language and references to sexuality
Summary: The very idea of being awake at eight is ludicrous enough, even without the added disaster of a coffee date with the man Edward's friend (or colleague, or whatever Richard is) has shagged to make a point.
Notes: Subsequent to Faculty Planning; concurrent with Absolution.
He's paying for his cheap, greasy Chinese food in the Student Union when he catches sight of Dr. Bolingbroke; the other man's sitting at a booth with some kid in a flannel shirt, the two of them bending their heads over a set of notebooks. Probably an advisory meeting, judging by the way the professor's finger traces a line (of equations?) and the student follows it with barely-concealed apprehension. Edward has been in dozens of those meetings by now, on both sides of the table; he knows what the first, fragile stages of a project look like, when the work's still nothing but a few feverish notes and a glimmer in the candidate's eye.
The register's drawer slides open; the cashier changes Edward's ten. He tips the bills and coins into his jacket pocket and grabs his brown paper bag, and he has every intention of making his way to his office for a quick lunch before his seminar.
"Dr. York."
Edward turns, smiling faintly. "Dr. Bolingbroke. I didn't want to interrupt your meeting."
The other man casts his student a glance that almost acknowledges the incursion on his time. "Nor do I, of course. Would you do me the honor of meeting me for coffee tomorrow morning?"
"If you can make time at eight," says Edward, with something approaching black humor. The very idea of being awake at eight is ludicrous enough, even without the added disaster of a coffee date with the man his friend (or colleague, or whatever the hell Richard is) has shagged to make a point. He would frankly rather gnaw his left wrist open. "I'm teaching from nine-thirty on. Sorry about that."
"Eight it is," answers Bolingbroke--far too easily, Edward thinks. He should hardly be surprised that the man is a morning person; he probably wakes with his children and escorts them personally to their bus stop. "That cafe a few streets north of campus? Pausa Caffè?" He mispronounces the Italian in a distinctly English fashion, but at least he has decent taste.
"Pausa Caffè, at eight," agrees Edward; he knows his Italian to be immaculate. "Enjoy your meeting."
"Enjoy your General Tso's." There is a smile twitching at the corner of Bolingbroke's lips, as though he dearly longs to break into a proper grin.
Edward considers remarking that it's not clever to comment on another man's lunch purchases--even when the contents are marked clearly on the bag. It smacks of over-familiarity, which in a near stranger approaches insolence. In the end, though, he bites his tongue and walks away.
It's the sort of observation that would have charmed him, if Richard had made it.
* * *
Pausa Caffè is a self-consciously bohemian place, all mismatched copper espresso machines and uneven stained-glass windows and imitation Second Empire furniture arranged hopefully into nooks that might encourage conversation. The cafe is always scented with cinnamon and caramel and chamomile, which gives it the overall aroma of a Yankee Candle shop.
It's the only place Edward knows that does a decent Turkish coffee, though, and so he's willing to grant it a few bohemian pretensions. He settles back into a particularly egregious-looking armchair, raising his brows at Bolingbroke and taking a long sip. It has never been clearer that, despite their long service on the same committee, they do not really know one another.
When it becomes apparent that the other man isn't about to break the silence, Edward offers, "I'm sorry about my colleague's behavior in our last meeting." The words don't flow readily; they sound too formal, like a speech that he's reading from a card. "Richard is--he's not really cut out for bureaucracy."
"No, I don't suppose that he is," answers Bolingbroke, rubbing thoughtfully at his wrist. There are bruises there, just over the knob of bone; Edward swallows as he watches that thumb sweep slow over darkened skin.
He raises his eyes to meet Bolingbroke's. They both know damn well how those bruises got there.
"Are you complaining about his unorthodox methods?" asks Edward, and even if the question is a needling one, it's gratifying to watch the tips of Bolingbroke's ears turn red.
After a fortifying sip of coffee, he answers, "I didn't ask you here to talk about Dr. Bordeaux." It's obviously a lie, but Edward accepts that and leans in to hear whatever Bolingbroke's excuse for a conversation is. "The mathematics department is being encouraged" and there's a particular emphasis on the word "to team-teach, and I saw you'd put in a proposal on Renaissance maths and sciences for next fall term."
"And you'd like to see if I'm open to team-teaching it." That sort of proposition calls for another coffee. "Not to sound condescending, but what do you envision your contribution being?"
"The practice," says Bolingbroke, as though it were obvious. He is worrying at his cuff again, which is unnecessarily distracting. "Learning to use the mathematical modes of the period, potentially even speculating on what developments might naturally follow--in a historical sense as well, of course," he says. "I would be glad to take social restrictions into account."
"And you think the undergraduates would enjoy learning outdated mathematics?"
"Foundational mathematics," says Bolingbroke. He slips so smoothly into the language of the course catalogue, with such a perfectly innocent expression, that Edward finds himself stifling a snort of laughter. When the other man's lip twitches up at the corner, Edward breaks into a laugh that shakes the dust motes from the curtains and makes them dance in the early-morning sunlight.
Hell, he thinks. They'll need a math credit, anyway. He can feel his smile, still broad and relieved and easy, and he offers his hand. "Buy me my next coffee, and you've got a deal."
Bolingbroke's hand is warm and dry in his, the skin cracked a little at the knuckles and at the webs of the fingers. The handshake lasts exactly as long as is proper, no more and no less.
"We'll need to revise the proposal," Edward says, when they have returned to their conversation nook with newly filled cups. "And redraft the syllabus, at some more godly hour of the day. I'll send you what I have--write down your e-mail address for me, would you?" He passes a little Moleskine notebook across the table, a pen neatly clipped to the front.
"Gladly."
"And now," says Edward, "You can stop pretending that you aren't here to talk about Richard."
For a fraction of a moment, the pen presses hard against the paper; a blot forms under the tip. "He hasn't returned my calls," says Bolingbroke eventually. "There's nothing to be said."
Edward has done enough manuscript work with Richard to read between--or across--the lines. "He gave you his number?" he asks.
Bolingbroke's jaw works briefly, which is answer enough. "He's in the directory."
"And so are you," says Edward, raising a brow. "He knows to ignore your number." Which is itself a sign of interest, he thinks; Not that I'd ever had that particular, questionable pleasure. He leans back against his chair and reflects that Sartre had furnished Hell with Second Empire furniture.
Henry sits back, as well, the notebook still closed in his palm. He's smart enough to catch the subtext of what's been said, which Edward supposes is something. He looks as though he is trying to solve a very difficult problem in his head, eyes just a little unfocused and lips slightly parted; the sunlight strikes auburn lights from his hair. "It's nothing to concern yourself with," he says at last. "I won't be drawn into it."
He passes the little Moleskine notebook back across the table, and Edward folds it in his fingers. It's still warm where it's been held, and he lets his fingers linger there before slipping the book into his briefcase with the page proofs. "Do you think he's trying to draw you?" asks Edward, when the silence has stretched a few seconds too long to be comfortable.
"I don't care what the damned man's trying to do," Henry snaps, setting down his cup hard enough to rattle the saucer. "I won't be manipulated by some smug bastard who thinks the whole damned world has got to run just the way he likes it--"
"He does have control issues," admits Edward. "And it's a cliché to say that he has them because he lost his wife in a car wreck, but I don't think that's too far from the truth."
The silence that follows is differently charged from the last; it's as though Bolingbroke is paying his respects. "Anne used to be a friend of mine," he says, subdued, with his eyes on his cup. "We'd see each other at concerts when we were at university, and she'd talk about designing a concert hall that was acoustically perfect for Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies--if she'd been a Catholic, Mary would have asked her to be Tom's godmother. She was an incredible woman." Edward isn't sure whether he means Anne or Mary; it doesn't matter which he means.
"I wish I'd known them," he says, and he means it. Richard never speaks of Anne except when he's drunk and maudlin; Edward knows what her favorite shade of yellow is, and how she liked her coffee, and what she wore to her wedding. He collects those little shards of stories as though he is an archaeologist trying to reassemble Richard's past.
Henry Bolingbroke comes from a part of Richard's life that will always be barred to Edward; their power games and petty feuds are all that lives on from those days. It's only right that they should snipe in meetings and swipe each other's numbers from the directory and manipulate the hell out of each other (and tie each other up and fuck each other; he can't forget that).
"Well," says Henry, clearing his throat. "Let's set a date to talk about that syllabus. Next week?"
"Friday? I'm off then."
"How's seven in the morning?" At Edward's faint, involuntary groan, Henry musters a smile. "Or noon?"
"Noon's better. I should be more than halfway human by eleven o'clock." He stands, and the other man stands as well. They are determined not to close their conversation on death, and yet Edward can feel it drawing inexorably to a close nonetheless.
"If this is your less than halfway human, I'd like to see what you're like at full capacity." Henry offers his hand to shake once more, and Edward takes it and shakes it firmly. The contact lasts a few seconds too long, but if it's meant to seek reassurance or to seal their new acquaintance, Edward finds he doesn't mind. "Have a good day, Dr. York."
"Call me Edward," he says, and feels genuinely at ease enough to mean it.
"Are we already exchanging Christian names? Then call me Henry."
"Good day, then, Henry." For an awkward moment, Edward pauses as though he's waiting to hear some kind of response--he's not sure what kind he expects, some parting pleasantry or a last-minute request to plead Henry's case to Richard. At any rate, Henry says nothing more, and after a pause Edward picks up his briefcase and starts out into the sunlight.
The streets are just beginning to fill with slow-crawling cars, the sidewalks to fill with students in sweatpants with the university logo emblazoned on the ass; all of the maple leaves are fringed with red and waving gently in the breeze. The air smells only faintly of exhaust, and mostly of coffee from the shop he's just left.
He'll tell Richard to call, and noninterference be damned. There are worse things he could do, he thinks, than get caught between Richard Bordeaux and Henry Bolingbroke.