one crimson tie (onecrimsontie) wrote in secondservings,
one crimson tie

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THE ORLI-FIC: Chapter 1 - Caps off, lads

This little one-shot ("one-shot") (""one-shot"") ("""LEIIHATEYOU one-shot""") was the beginning of what will be my end, some day. It was only supposed to be an inside-joke ridden one-shot for Leila who had joked about wanting someone to write an Orlando Bloom/Leila fanfic for one of her Christmas gifts, but then she went stark raving mad and wrote a Sean Biggerstaff-fic to get me back. And then we both went insane. So here we are.

(Orli is short for Orlando, by the way. That's okay if you didn't know that, though. I didn't know either when Leila first told me, and immediately thought of octopuses.)

Happy holidays!


CHAPTER 1 - Caps off, lads


The Yuletide bells tied onto the door handles jangled as Leila entered the coffee shop, ringing out a greeting as welcome as the sudden warmth of being inside. Leila unwound her scarf, leaving it to hang horseshoe-like around her neck, and dusted snow off her coat and hair, grimacing from the cold that met her fingers. Once her coat returned to its initial black, she made her way past the scattered assemblies of tables and cheery Starbucks holiday displays to stand in line, and ponder over what she should order today.

She idly twirled her fingers around the colored fringe of her scarf, assessing the coffees charted across the wall with a critical and judgmental eye. What would it be today? Her eyes moved across the board, her lip bit. What would it be today... She tilted her head. Cafe americano? She considered. No, that coffee wasn't worth anyone's money, least of all hers. She wasn't about to spend her weekly, self-allotted university allowance on coffee that tasted like absolutely nothing at all. Well, Viennese coffee, then? Or Brazilian? The line to the ordering counter shifted; she took an automatic step forward, still in debate. What would it be, then, what would it be? An Irish cream? A simple latte? Or should she go for the Viennese? She frowned, crossing her arms.

"Miss, if you're ready to order--"

Shit, shit. She began to panic. What should she get? What were the options again? Oh shit. Ah, oh well. Who was she kidding anyway. She didn't drink anything but caramel and chocolate frappuccinos; anything else would probably kill her. Well, except for that one double-shot she'd had one night... or was it day... she couldn't really remember. Caffeine paid no heed to time, and neither had she that night. Or day. Whatever. She dismissed the thought and set her black purse on the counter, rifling for her wallet as she absently placed her order. "One caramel frappucino, please."

"Not afraid of the cold, are you?" Leila nodded politely, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "And what size would you like that in? We have these cups here, and these other two... I presume you want a tall, miss?"

Leila stopped the search for her wallet to stare hard at the employee. What the hell, was he kidding her? A tall? "Uh, no. Grande."

The cashier's smile faltered at her expression. "Oh, ah, okay. Right away, right away, miss." He took a cup of the largest sizing and scrawled her order onto the cup with nervous speed, and then fumbled for the receipt as it inched out of the cash register. "Here's, ah, your receipt. Happy Christmas."

Leila smiled in return, trying not to look amused or slightly smug. "Thank you." Folding the receipt into fourths and stuffing it into her wallet, she sidestepped from the counter and with practiced steps made her way to the orders table. A tall. She shook her head. Honestly.

She began humming, to her own tuning, an upbeat version of The Cars's "Just What I Needed" to pass the time while she waited for her coffee, and kept her fingers occupied by playing with the fringe of her scarf.

Five long minutes later she was on her second rendition of the song, though in a manner considerably less enthusiastic, and minus the scarf twirling. Squinting her eyes, she wondered if she could establish a psychic connection with the employee making her coffee. She then pondered the physics of telekinesis. Jenn did it this morning to an old lady on the bus, or so Jenn claimed. Leila frowned. For all her logic and good advice that Leila never followed, Jenn really was rather odd sometimes. And, well, if her friend could do it, then so could she. Leila crossed her arms-- and squinted. Very hard. Out the corner of her eye, she thought she caught the figure of a man waiting beside her, but was so focused on the green-aproned employee that she missed the man's amused glance towards her direction.

"Caramel frappucino!" A hand appeared from behind the wall of red and green Christmas products, sliding a large cup of coffee onto the pick-up table.

"My friend," she murmured in blissful welcome as she picked her coffee up and made her way to the self-service table. As she walked to the counter lined with napkins and plastic utensils and spices and flavorings, she made a mental list of the flavors she would shake onto her coffee first.

Cinnamon, she decided, setting the cup down and popping the plastic dome off the top. She took the cinnamon shaker and flicked it over the coronet of cream topping her coffee until half of the white was covered, then reached for the chocolate to conceal the remaining half of the whipped cream. Her friend, Jenn, often found these "crowning ceremonies" appalling, but Leila couldn't imagine frappuccinos any other way. This really was the only way to take them, really.

The only problem was capping the plastic cap onto the cup again. You had to pinch the sides of the cup a certain way in order to fit the semi-sphere onto the brim again, and then press it down with just the right amount of pressure to ensure it stayed there.

Apparently today wasn't as good of a day as she'd thought, because the damned cap wouldn't fit back on. She reached for the cap.

Pop! The plastic cap popped off as soon as she removed her hands. She tried again.


"Shitting little bugger," she muttered, grasping the fallen cap again. If she didn't hurry, she'd start to look stupid.


"Goddamnit, just stay on!"

Realizing she was beginning to receive some questioning looks, she lowered her voice and hunched over her coffee, attempting to blend into the background for a few minutes before picking the cap back up again.


What the mofo? Leila glared at her cup, hand going up to rake through her hair. Okay. Okay. She was going to try this again. She would be like that tortoise that won the race against the hare. She would be slow but steady. Slow but steady. Yes, yes.


"SHITBALLS!" she exploded.

"Excuse me?"

What the hell? Eyes sweeping upward in impatience, Leila turned around to acknowledge whomever had spoken, moving her glare from her incorrigible plastic cap to the face of the person who'd interrupted her. "What!"

A man stood behind her, hands jammed into the pockets of his Prussian blue blazer, curly brown hair brushed white with winter snow, and with a taken back expression on his face. Leila crossed her arms, waiting. To her surprise and infuriation, the man broke into a grin and held his hands up in mock surrender.

"Fine, fine, never mind," he said, his accent hinting of years of blazers and boarding schools, and socialite gatherings. "I can tell this is something I probably don't want to know about."

"It isn't," Leila responded curtly, turning back to force-fit her cap onto the cup.


"Need help with that?"

"With what."

"With the..." Out the corner of her eye she saw him gesture with his hands. "The cap."

"No, I'm doing swimmingly, thanks." Why wouldn't he just leave? Couldn't he see she was frustrated and trying to work? She hated people peering over her shoulder when she worked. And cup-capped.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Well, in that case." The irritant moved to place a similar cup beside hers, took off his cap, and began shaking chocolate powder onto his iced latte as if nothing was wrong. So, she wasn't the only one that went for cold drinks on cold days.

The man then moved on to grab the cinnamon shaker, expression nonchalant, as if they'd never spoken. Leila's glare receeded when she realized he wasn't going to continue to provoke her. Finally! What a mofo. But at least she was done dealing with him--


The guy grinned. "Sorry. These things are hard as hell to put on." She then watched as he deftly picked his cap back up, hers still sitting on the table as a signal of her failure, and set it onto the mouth of the cup-- perfectly.

"Cheers," he commented, raising his in acknowledgement before casually sipping his latte. He then paused, and raised hs lips from the straw. "Oh, and actually, they're not hard to put on at all."

Mouth dropping open, Leila gaped with what one could call enraged disbelief, before her eyes narrowed, and she began rummaging for her 0.38 black pen. Eyes still trained onto her target, she felt around for her black pen. She would stab him right there, in the chest, and then do a mad dash to the tube station... and hide away in Surrey or Liverpool for a few days. Yes. Good plan.

But before she could take her pen out of her pocket, he spoke again, with another grin.

"So. I'm Orli. What's your name?"


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