konstantya (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
konstantya) wrote2015-02-12 04:31 pm
konstantya) wrote2015-02-12 04:31 pm
Entry tags:
[fic] Star Trek (TNG) - "Go Ahead, Make My Latte"
Title: Go Ahead, Make My Latte
Fandom: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: AU, drama, humor.
Characters: Ishara Yar, Lore.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,461
Summary: Coffee shop AU. Ishara the bitchy barista gets held up by Lore the petty criminal. What is this I don't even.
It was at precisely 11:54 PM that the door to Turkana Coffee opened. Ishara sighed and didn't even bother to look up from her magazine.
It never fucking failed. The place could be dead all day, but so long as she was closing, someone would inevitably wander in just as she was about to lock the doors and turn off the sign in the window. And more often than not, they'd order one of the more ridiculous drinks, that took a good couple minutes to prepare.
"Just so you know," she called out dryly, as her eyes flicked dubiously over 7 Make-Up Styles That Will Make His Mouth Water, "we close in five minutes, I've already shut off the espresso machine, and I'm not warming it back up just for you."
"Well," the customer drawled, apparently amused by her obvious apathy, his voice alerting her to the fact that he was, in fact, male, "I guess that makes my decision easier, doesn't it?"
Ishara didn't respond. Her customer relations could use some work, admittedly, but more and more, she just couldn't work up the energy required to give a damn. It was so much easier to just break into the suggestion box every so often and filter out the more inflammatory comments that were inevitably directed toward her.
Sometimes, as she worked the paperclips in the mechanism, she wondered if she shouldn't have just gone into a life of crime. After all, she'd had a knack for shoplifting back in high school. Sometimes she still even found herself indulging in the practice. Both the magazine she was reading and the underwear she was wearing, she noted with some chagrin, had been procured in such a fashion.
Ishara shrugged the realization off. Whatever. Just because she was vaguely curious about underwater sex tips (like, that was a thing?—and enough of a thing that people apparently needed tips on it?) didn't mean she was willing to shell out actual money for them. And as for the underwear… Well. Fifteen dollars for a garment that only covered half of one's ass was about ten dollars too much, in her opinion. And one couldn't very easily throw a clerk a five dollar bill without some questions being asked, so.
Idly, she flipped the page, and caught a glimpse of dark jeans and a black jacket out of the corner of her eye as the man finally stepped up to the counter. With barely concealed disdain, she put down the magazine and shuffled to the register. Laboriously, she lifted her hand and let it hover listlessly over the keys, waiting for him to state his order so she could enter it, fill it, and then get the hell out of there. Please let it be a plain coffee, she despondently prayed. Please.
There was a hard, swift click, and then the black barrel of a gun was shoved into her line of sight. "Everything in the register, if you please," he said.
Ishara blinked and finally looked up, focusing on his face for the very first time. He was striking, though perhaps not in the classically handsome sort of way. Dark hair, pale skin, a prominent nose, and quite possibly the strangest natural eye color she'd ever seen. A tawny sort of amber, almost more yellow than brown. For an instant, she had to wonder why he didn't obscure them in some way—colored contacts or sunglasses or, hell, even a hat with a brim. They struck her as one of those distinguishing features a criminal—even a petty one who robbed coffee shops—would probably want to avoid. So was he stupid? Or just incredibly confident in his ability to avoid capture?
Judging by the dangerous, arrogant glint in said eyes, she found herself banking on the latter of the two options.
"Oh," he added, his lips curling into a smile, "and a large chai latte, with extra whipped cream and a shot of vanilla."
Despite herself, her shoulders dropped. "Are you fucking serious?"
His grin only grew wider. "Indubitably, Miz…"—his gaze flicked down to her left breast—"Ishara."
Fucking nametags. One more reason she hated working there. Everyone knew her fucking name, and, more often than not, had a tendency to say it with this bizarre flourish. As if it was the most exotic fucking thing they'd ever heard. The fact that he'd pronounced it correctly, with nothing more than a slightly smug inflection, was almost enough to put him a step above most of the people she had to deal with on a daily basis. Never mind the gun that was still aimed straight at her chest.
She stared at him for another moment, those strange golden eyes of his. Came to a decision and then firmly said, "No. Fuck it. I quit." She punched the "no sale" button and the cash dispenser popped open. "Here. Take it. I don't fucking care anymore." She untied the apron from around her waist and fairly threw it on the floor.
Her thief raised an eyebrow. "What about my drink?"
"Make it your-fucking-self. I'm done. I'm done with this shit job, and its shit pay, and the shitty fucking customers I have to put up with. Yourself included," she added, because gun aimed at her chest be damned; she was on a roll now. "Seriously, what kind of an asshole holds up a place, and then demands a pretentious drink like a chai latte, with extra whipped cream and a shot of vanilla?"
His brow furrowed defensively, the first genuine expression she'd seen on his face. "I'll have you know I happen to like them!"
Her mouth fell open incredulously and she made a face as if to say, Really? A guy like you, who knocks over coffee shops, actually likes shit like that? but quickly got a hold of her features again. She crossed her arms, scowling at nothing in particular—or, perhaps more accurately, at everything—but after a moment, let that expression drop as well. Furtively, she shot him a sideways glance. "Can I ask you a question?" He didn't say anything, instead choosing to watch her speculatively, and she took that as a 'yes.' "How did you get into this in the first place?" She gestured at his person and the gun, the still-open cash register.
He peered at her, curiosity apparently overriding mistrust. "Why? Thinking of a career change?" His voice was dry, laced with sarcasm, but she answered sincerely anyway.
"Yeah, actually. I've done a bit of it, here and there. Shoplifting, lock-picking, you know. And hey," she said, waving her hand toward him again, "at least when you're holding up a place, no one expects you to have a smile plastered on your face." An absolutely insane idea occurred to her just then, and before she could think better of it, she asked, "You're not looking for a partner, are you?"
He eyed her coolly, suspiciously, gun still trained on her. "Not particularly."
"What if I made it worth your while?" The words were hardly suggestive, and to his credit, he didn't appear to interpret them as anything sexual. She liked that. He was intelligent, pragmatic. Not one to let himself get distracted by something as trivial as sex. (Assuming he was even interested in women, that was. When a man ordered a chai latte with extra whipped cream and a shot of vanilla, who knew? More to the point, who cared?)
"…Depends," he said at length. "What exactly would you be offering?"
"I know the code to the safe in back. Take me with you, and we can split it, fifty-fifty." Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. She was playing such a dangerous game here. Because who was to say he wouldn't just kill her after the safe was open? Some criminals carried guns for mere intimidation, she knew, but he was too confident, too casual, and there was no doubt in her mind that he'd have no trouble actually firing it at her. For an instant, it occurred to her that perhaps she should have just gone to college like a good girl and gotten a nine-to-five job like everybody else. But being the 'good girl' had never really been her style. Not in high school and apparently not even now. The pilfered panties she was currently wearing was proof enough of that.
He gave her an appraising look up and down, and fingered the trigger of his gun thoughtfully. For a moment, she feared he would simply shoot her on the spot. Or at the very least, laugh at her. But instead he just grinned that sly grin of his and said, "Make me that latte, and you've got yourself a deal."
-----
A/N: To explain, this started off as a joke about how I ship Lore and Ishara in every universe, even ridiculous ones like coffee shop AUs. Suffice it to say, I really should have known better than to say shit like that.
In other news, you cannot convince me that Lore wouldn't order the most obnoxious frou-frou drinks ever (partly because they are obnoxious and he's an asshole like that, and partly because, yes, he genuinely likes them). You just can't. Also, the sheer amount of disdain barista!Ishara has for everything gives me life. These two are terrible, terrible people, and I love them for it.
All other fics can be found here.
Fandom: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: AU, drama, humor.
Characters: Ishara Yar, Lore.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,461
Summary: Coffee shop AU. Ishara the bitchy barista gets held up by Lore the petty criminal. What is this I don't even.
- Go Ahead, Make My Latte -
It was at precisely 11:54 PM that the door to Turkana Coffee opened. Ishara sighed and didn't even bother to look up from her magazine.
It never fucking failed. The place could be dead all day, but so long as she was closing, someone would inevitably wander in just as she was about to lock the doors and turn off the sign in the window. And more often than not, they'd order one of the more ridiculous drinks, that took a good couple minutes to prepare.
"Just so you know," she called out dryly, as her eyes flicked dubiously over 7 Make-Up Styles That Will Make His Mouth Water, "we close in five minutes, I've already shut off the espresso machine, and I'm not warming it back up just for you."
"Well," the customer drawled, apparently amused by her obvious apathy, his voice alerting her to the fact that he was, in fact, male, "I guess that makes my decision easier, doesn't it?"
Ishara didn't respond. Her customer relations could use some work, admittedly, but more and more, she just couldn't work up the energy required to give a damn. It was so much easier to just break into the suggestion box every so often and filter out the more inflammatory comments that were inevitably directed toward her.
Sometimes, as she worked the paperclips in the mechanism, she wondered if she shouldn't have just gone into a life of crime. After all, she'd had a knack for shoplifting back in high school. Sometimes she still even found herself indulging in the practice. Both the magazine she was reading and the underwear she was wearing, she noted with some chagrin, had been procured in such a fashion.
Ishara shrugged the realization off. Whatever. Just because she was vaguely curious about underwater sex tips (like, that was a thing?—and enough of a thing that people apparently needed tips on it?) didn't mean she was willing to shell out actual money for them. And as for the underwear… Well. Fifteen dollars for a garment that only covered half of one's ass was about ten dollars too much, in her opinion. And one couldn't very easily throw a clerk a five dollar bill without some questions being asked, so.
Idly, she flipped the page, and caught a glimpse of dark jeans and a black jacket out of the corner of her eye as the man finally stepped up to the counter. With barely concealed disdain, she put down the magazine and shuffled to the register. Laboriously, she lifted her hand and let it hover listlessly over the keys, waiting for him to state his order so she could enter it, fill it, and then get the hell out of there. Please let it be a plain coffee, she despondently prayed. Please.
There was a hard, swift click, and then the black barrel of a gun was shoved into her line of sight. "Everything in the register, if you please," he said.
Ishara blinked and finally looked up, focusing on his face for the very first time. He was striking, though perhaps not in the classically handsome sort of way. Dark hair, pale skin, a prominent nose, and quite possibly the strangest natural eye color she'd ever seen. A tawny sort of amber, almost more yellow than brown. For an instant, she had to wonder why he didn't obscure them in some way—colored contacts or sunglasses or, hell, even a hat with a brim. They struck her as one of those distinguishing features a criminal—even a petty one who robbed coffee shops—would probably want to avoid. So was he stupid? Or just incredibly confident in his ability to avoid capture?
Judging by the dangerous, arrogant glint in said eyes, she found herself banking on the latter of the two options.
"Oh," he added, his lips curling into a smile, "and a large chai latte, with extra whipped cream and a shot of vanilla."
Despite herself, her shoulders dropped. "Are you fucking serious?"
His grin only grew wider. "Indubitably, Miz…"—his gaze flicked down to her left breast—"Ishara."
Fucking nametags. One more reason she hated working there. Everyone knew her fucking name, and, more often than not, had a tendency to say it with this bizarre flourish. As if it was the most exotic fucking thing they'd ever heard. The fact that he'd pronounced it correctly, with nothing more than a slightly smug inflection, was almost enough to put him a step above most of the people she had to deal with on a daily basis. Never mind the gun that was still aimed straight at her chest.
She stared at him for another moment, those strange golden eyes of his. Came to a decision and then firmly said, "No. Fuck it. I quit." She punched the "no sale" button and the cash dispenser popped open. "Here. Take it. I don't fucking care anymore." She untied the apron from around her waist and fairly threw it on the floor.
Her thief raised an eyebrow. "What about my drink?"
"Make it your-fucking-self. I'm done. I'm done with this shit job, and its shit pay, and the shitty fucking customers I have to put up with. Yourself included," she added, because gun aimed at her chest be damned; she was on a roll now. "Seriously, what kind of an asshole holds up a place, and then demands a pretentious drink like a chai latte, with extra whipped cream and a shot of vanilla?"
His brow furrowed defensively, the first genuine expression she'd seen on his face. "I'll have you know I happen to like them!"
Her mouth fell open incredulously and she made a face as if to say, Really? A guy like you, who knocks over coffee shops, actually likes shit like that? but quickly got a hold of her features again. She crossed her arms, scowling at nothing in particular—or, perhaps more accurately, at everything—but after a moment, let that expression drop as well. Furtively, she shot him a sideways glance. "Can I ask you a question?" He didn't say anything, instead choosing to watch her speculatively, and she took that as a 'yes.' "How did you get into this in the first place?" She gestured at his person and the gun, the still-open cash register.
He peered at her, curiosity apparently overriding mistrust. "Why? Thinking of a career change?" His voice was dry, laced with sarcasm, but she answered sincerely anyway.
"Yeah, actually. I've done a bit of it, here and there. Shoplifting, lock-picking, you know. And hey," she said, waving her hand toward him again, "at least when you're holding up a place, no one expects you to have a smile plastered on your face." An absolutely insane idea occurred to her just then, and before she could think better of it, she asked, "You're not looking for a partner, are you?"
He eyed her coolly, suspiciously, gun still trained on her. "Not particularly."
"What if I made it worth your while?" The words were hardly suggestive, and to his credit, he didn't appear to interpret them as anything sexual. She liked that. He was intelligent, pragmatic. Not one to let himself get distracted by something as trivial as sex. (Assuming he was even interested in women, that was. When a man ordered a chai latte with extra whipped cream and a shot of vanilla, who knew? More to the point, who cared?)
"…Depends," he said at length. "What exactly would you be offering?"
"I know the code to the safe in back. Take me with you, and we can split it, fifty-fifty." Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. She was playing such a dangerous game here. Because who was to say he wouldn't just kill her after the safe was open? Some criminals carried guns for mere intimidation, she knew, but he was too confident, too casual, and there was no doubt in her mind that he'd have no trouble actually firing it at her. For an instant, it occurred to her that perhaps she should have just gone to college like a good girl and gotten a nine-to-five job like everybody else. But being the 'good girl' had never really been her style. Not in high school and apparently not even now. The pilfered panties she was currently wearing was proof enough of that.
He gave her an appraising look up and down, and fingered the trigger of his gun thoughtfully. For a moment, she feared he would simply shoot her on the spot. Or at the very least, laugh at her. But instead he just grinned that sly grin of his and said, "Make me that latte, and you've got yourself a deal."
-----
A/N: To explain, this started off as a joke about how I ship Lore and Ishara in every universe, even ridiculous ones like coffee shop AUs. Suffice it to say, I really should have known better than to say shit like that.
In other news, you cannot convince me that Lore wouldn't order the most obnoxious frou-frou drinks ever (partly because they are obnoxious and he's an asshole like that, and partly because, yes, he genuinely likes them). You just can't. Also, the sheer amount of disdain barista!Ishara has for everything gives me life. These two are terrible, terrible people, and I love them for it.
All other fics can be found here.