Title: What's Latin for Chocolate? 1/2
Author: Ruth
ABH: Rupert Giles
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Aegidius Whedoni est. Violatio exemplari non mihi in animo
est
Thanks: Sandra for the challenge, Stephen for lending me his Latin
dictionary, my muse for speaking to me for the first time in a while.
Rari, aka Super-beta.
Dedication: to the British ladies on the list(s). The rest of you just
lie back and think of 'England' (!)
Notes: Mirabile dictu: "wonderful to relate"; Eia: exclamation of
pleasant surprise Vir pulcher: "beautiful man" nunc: "now". Vale,
lector: "Farewell, reader." Finis: "end" (duh).
You're just about to close your till for the day and go home. All day on your feet and a paper to give tomorrow as well. Sigh. Looks as if it's going to be another with the whiff of the midnight oil about it. Coming to America to Grad School has been *so* expensive. You've spent your meagre savings from years of interesting but low paid academic employment getting here, paying fees, finding a place in the only town whose University has an expert on your subject to supervise you. You're just lucky you impressed the bookstore owner with your British accent and name dropping his favourite author (your uncle). You could have ended up working at the DoubleMeat Palace. Shudder.
Oh, one last customer. Helloooo. Could definitely fancy *that*. Mature, yes, but so delightfully flustered and intelligent looking. Good legs too. You always appreciated good long legs in a man. And eyes. And *cough* yes, please sir, *do* bend right over to look at the books on the lowest shelf. Niiice.
A Latin dictionary? Well, you never, didn't realise you even stocked them. It's not a college boy's "impress the girls" cheap paperback edition either, but a real tome that he hefts easily in his long, strong hands before straightening and looking around for a pay point. <<C'mon, c'mon, here I am>> you think, trying to influence him psychically from the other side of the shop. Store. Whatever. Starting to think like a native, hey!
Your insides do a little skip as he heads your way. Whoah, girl, he's probably married. Or gay. All the best ones are, that's what your mates always said back home, no reason to believe it's any different here. He comes up to the till and meets your eye, and not only does he have the most gorgeous green eyes behind the glasses, but a shy smile that makes the skips inside graduate to leaps. OK. OK. The voice. That'll be the decider for whether he gets a 10 out of 10 or just a 9 on your personal Male Customer Ratings Scale.
"Um, excuse me, are you still open, Miss, er…." He looks at your name tag and actually gets it *right*, and it's then you realise that not only does he have a gentle, cultured tone that would make warm honey jealous, but he's *British*. English. A long way from home, just the way you've been feeling lately.
"Certainly, how can I help you?" you say brightly, conscious that you're putting it on just a little, rounding the vowels and stressing the 't' to establish your fellow-countrywoman credentials. And you get your reward, because recognition turns The Smile up another hundred watts.
"D'you know, you're the first person I've met from home in an age?" he remarks as you ring up the purchase. <<"in an age"? Do people really still talk like that? Wonderful old fashioned men with lovely manners who went to a good school do>> you tell yourself. You always wanted one of those. Oh, well, time to send him home to wifie. Or whoever, but somehow you doubt the gay option. Suddenly you doubt the married bit too. Who'd let him out in *that* tie? Doesn't go with the (rather nice) suit. Fee fi fo fum, you smell a bachelor.
"Just over here to study for my thesis. *Finally* looks as if I might finish the blasted thing" you tell him. He pays cash, handles the money confidently, not seeming to do the mental dollar/sterling conversion you are trying to train yourself out of. You suspect he's a more long-term ex pat and say so.
"Well, yes, I've been here, oh, over five years now. What's your thesis on?" he asks with genuine interest. You mention the name of the obscure Silver Latin poet whose works you'd like to rescue from notoriety (where they currently reside due to their highly erotic content) and he actually knows whom you mean. His eyebrows rise eloquently.
"He's a little…racy" he ventures.
"But, the *style*" you begin defensively, reddening." So polished, so original, so…" you trail off; he's smothering a chuckle and you hand him the bag containing his purchase, realising he's been waiting patiently for longer than he ought to, according to your boss' "10 Principles for Efficient Customer Service" that he's had pinned to the wall in the employees' restroom.
Just a customer, you remind yourself. Eye candy, as your American friend Suzie would put it. Not for oral consumption. A particularly detailed description of one type of oral consumption from your poet's most infamous work springs unbidden to mind and the Englishman looks curiously at your startled face before thanking you politely and walking out of the store.
A few minutes later you've grabbed your things and hurried out, heading for another rendezvous with fast food and caffeine-fuelled brain fever. Halfway down the street you see your customer again. He's actually doing that reading a book whilst walking along thing, that your mum always said was so dangerous, and could never shake you out of the habit of doing all through your childhood. Losing an argument with a lamp post finally did that, but you hope that it won't happen to him. He's going pretty slowly, you actually pass him, taking a short cut down a side street. A moment later you look back and he's turned down there too, still reading, flicking through the pages, searching. He smiles in sudden satisfaction and snaps the book shut, then looks about with an adorably puzzled air, says something short and presumably Anglo Saxon, and starts back the other way.
Distracted and not a little disappointed, you don't see until too late the thug who pushes into you roughly, grabs your bag and makes off with it. You yell loudly, consider giving chase, but then remember that in this country he might very well be armed.
The thief runs the wrong way, towards Main Street, dodging pedestrians. The Englishman has heard your shout, turning round, he drops his book on the pavement without hesitation and rugby tackles the fleeing youth. It isn't much of a struggle: he might be older but he's tall and fit and he knows how to hold on to someone and not let go. You run up to them, the knot of onlookers dispersing around you. Sir Galahad has extracted your bag from the thief's grasp and gives it to you. He's got the guy's arm twisted up behind his back, and it's clear from his expression that there's steel inside the gentle scholar. Oh, boy, Mr. Perfect. *Must* be too good to be true.
"Now push off" he tells the youth, his posh accent slipping just a trifle. He shoves him away and glowers at the rapidly retreating figure. He puts a hand under your elbow tentatively; delayed shock is making your knees wobble and you smile gratefully.
"You all right?" he asks, all gentleness again. The warmth of his hand on your arm is making the wobblies worse, not better. "Perhaps I should see you home. It'll be dark soon" He looks about warily, retrieves his dictionary (fortunately none the worse) from the ground, and escorts you all the way. You question his not calling the police to deal with the crime, but he says they have far worse things to deal with here and somehow you trust him to get his priorities right.