Apparently, my Muse is back from vacation. This one's also sort of Kielle's fault. So there. Nyah. This is sort of just my mind wandering; consider yourself warned. I have no beta-readers... yep, this is *completely* unedited! (aieeee!)
Disclaimer and notes are at the bottom.
Feedback to hutch @ jazmer.com, please?
It was just another quiet night at the Cafe.
Up at the bar, a pair of Scotts were getting drunk. Near them, Constantine was working on his second bottle of whiskey, an Urd draped slinkily over his shoulder. The dance floor was scattered with couples: a Gambit and a redheaded original fictive, another Gambit with a Joseph, a Wolverine and Jubilee gazing lustily into each others' eyes, who had nearly stopped moving altogether.
The eternal poker game had gained a couple of new players: Sara Pezzini and Del, who, between them, were causing the game to go in all sorts of new directions. Watching them, the Manager determined that pretty soon that group would require a private room. With no surveillance systems.
Even the Bouncer was relaxing; leaning against the wall outside, he watched the skies of Subreality and dozed cheerfully. Wasn't every night that things quieted down to this level. He liked it.
Naturally, he had no way of knowing that it wouldn't last.
The dark alley across the way was filled with whispering, susurrant noise rising and sinking again.
["Sorry, guys, the Writer changed her mind. She wants fluff."
["But---" Hisses of protest rose, clouding the air.
["You're being saved for the Subreality War RR. Go on now, git."
[Reluctantly, slithering, the dark beings removed themselves.
["That's better. Now, where were we?"]
Ah, yes. A slow song was playing on the Cafe's jukebox. The place resembled something of an average local bar tonight, with the low lighting, cruddy stools, and a tiny space for a band to set up (though none was scheduled at the moment). A row of dartboards took up one wall; three pool tables (one out of commission and covered with beer bottles) stood in succession in a corner.
"Who's the Writer?" asked an Obi-Wan of a Nightcrawler at the next table.
Kurt shrugged. "Some lurker-type. She must be in one of those sappy romantic moods." That was accompanied by a grimace that bared his fangs. He'd gotten tired of the long stretch of love songs - nothing but love songs - a while back, but was too far gone on Heinekin now to care. Fortunately, at that moment Daytripper came in, and so Obi-Wan was saved from further complaining.
Obi-Wan returned to the contemplation of his mug of lum. He had a fairly good idea of who the Writer was, but he wasn't inclined towards condemnation. Years of training had given him the ability to hold out patience in almost any situation. "She'll write when she's ready to," he said, almost to himself. Patiently.
"You say that like you believe it," the woman across the table from him replied.
"Why shouldn't I?" He was the perfect mix of injured innocent and wise sage. Despite herself, Buffy Summers smiled. She'd been fighting the onslaught of love songs as well, and Obi-Wan's bubble of good humor seemed to be the only escape in the cafe.
"Ever the optimist, huh? How about because she hasn't written me in, oh, two years?"
The smile teasing the edge of Obi-Wan's mouth grew wider. "But she reunited you with your love, did she not?"
"Oh, sure." Buffy shrugged, waving at the waitress to indicate another round - Coke for her, lum for him. "I can't complain about that. La-la land, happy ever after. All well and good. But--"
"But." Obi-Wan put the sentence on hold there. "You got more than a lot of Buffy fictives, you know."
Her eyes narrowed at him, an assessing gaze. "Well, yeah -- considering how many stories never get finished, or were written so poorly that you wish they'd never been started in the first place..." She leaned back in her chair. "What, are you telling me to count my blessings?"
Obi-Wan shrugged, his own smile one of evasive possibility. "More or less."
"Hm." She looked thoughtful. Then Angel came up behind her, inviting her to dance to the next song, and she excused herself hastily. Obi-Wan smiled, watching them go. They really did make a lovely couple.
["All right, already. I get the hint."
["You know, it's not like enough people have asked for a sequel--"
["I get it! Can't I at least finish one story in peace?"
He had to admit that he was feeling better, too. As he stood, downing the last of his lum, he glanced toward the door. The tall, robed figure silhouetted there took a step into the Cafe, and Obi-Wan eagerly went to meet him.
Patience was indeed a virtue. But sometimes, Obi-Wan thought, it was overrated.
Gambit and the red-headed woman are from my story, "Games People Play" (actually, its prequel, which I've been poking at for a while now).
All comic-book and movie characters are copyrighted to their creators. They are used here without permission and solely for the purposes of non-profit fanfic.
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this page last updated on 18 january 2003