#poor gal's really goin' thru it :')

[yeenybeanies]

Smallest Cyber Specialist (pt. 9)

if you found out that your dead partner's ex-wife was trying to contact you, would you give her a call? this is the question pip contemplates after receiving some of the worst news of her life. i apologize––i know my stuff tends to be pretty dialogue heavy, but this one is thick with dialogue --w--" first • previous • next call of duty | john mactavish/soap, simon riley/ghost, & pip lagomorph/lag (oc) 4,221 words strong language warning reblogs > likes!! thanks for reading!! patreon ✨ ko-fi ✨ ao3

Pip woke up with a gasp, her limbs flailing, tangling in the fabric around her. Where was she? When has she fallen asleep? What—? 

With a frustrated grunt, she kicked the fabric off and sat upright. 

The barracks. She was in the barracks, in a nest of blankets on someone’s bunk. It smelled like Soap’s. 

Soap, asleep and snoring softly to her left, confirmed that it was, in fact, his bunk. The sergeant was lying on his stomach with his arms hugging his pillow to his chest and his head turned towards her. His face was soft and relaxed. Her stirring hadn’t disturbed him, it seemed. Good. 

The adjacent bunk—Ghost’s—was empty. With Soap blocking her view of the other side, she couldn’t tell if Gaz was in his either. Many of the other bunks were occupied, though. It must have been night time. That would explain why the lights were out.

Gods above, she’d slept that long? 

Passed out for that long, more like. Pip could taste the lingering notes of whiskey on her tongue. At least she didn’t have a headache…

Unconsciously, she reached to the side for her glove, but paused when her fingers met the coarse fabric. 

The glove. 

Heat rose in her cheeks. This was Ghost’s glove. And, in her half-drunk, grief-stricken stupor, she’d humped the damn thing. 

A fucking glove. How embarrassing. 

Worse still, she could see herself doing it again. 

Pip dropped her head into her hands and bit back a groan. Alcohol and humping spare articles of clothing was not how she wanted to mourn the loss of her best friend. She scrubbed down her face and stared off into the darkness, brows pinched. 

Laswell had mentioned that Dana was trying to contact her. For reasons she couldn’t begin to comprehend, Looker’s ex-wife was looking for Pip. And, against her better judgment,  Pip was coming around to the idea of obliging her. She already had Dana’s number—an in-case-of-emergencies bit of information Looker had given her to use in case no one else was able to inform his family of his death. 

She never told him that she’d found Dana’s contact information and run a thorough background check on her long before that. The point was: one way or another, she had Dana’s number.  

Pip reached past the glove for her backpack and the computer within. She glanced at the time on the screen. Three thirty-seven AM. That would make it six thirty-seven PM back in Texas, where Dana lived. That wasn’t too late to call. 

But did Pip actually want to call? Of course she didn’t. Why was she even entertaining this idea? It was stupid! 

She pulled up her SMS app and scrolled to Ghost’s contact. 

>> it’s lag. where are you?

His response came only a minute later—admittedly, much faster than she’d expected. 

How did you get this number &lt;<

Pip rolled her eyes. 

>> i have everyone’s number. even the secret ones. you’re not in your bunk.

Observant of you. &lt;<

He was being annoying. To use his own words, a right wanker. Pip clenched her jaw and took a breath. She was trying to figure out how to rephrase what she wanted to say to him without all of the nasty words, when he started typing again. 

I’m talking with Price. What do you need? &lt;<

>> i need to make a call. need to go somewhere private.

Get Soap to take you. &lt;<

Ugh. Why was he like this? One minute, he was compassionate—in his own weird, Ghost-y way—and the next he was being an ass. Or, in Soap’s words, a bawbag. 

Human insults were so… dissatisfying.

A part of her welcomed the banter as a distraction. But most of her just found it frustrating. She typed back:

>> he’s asleep. assuming gaz is too. don’t want to wake them. >> if you don’t want to help, fine. i’ll jump down, hope i don’t break my other leg, and find somewhere to go on my own.

Sounds dramatic. Be there in a minute. &lt;<

Yes, it was dramatic. But it worked. Pip snapped her laptop shut and dug her fingers into her hair. Soap stirred next to her, drawing Pip’s attention to him. He adjusted his hold on the pillow, and nuzzled further into it. His chest heaved in a heavy sigh, the warmth of his breath washing over Pip. The pink of his tongue flashed momentarily between his lips. 

Pip shivered. Gods, she missed Looker. 

And then she silently looked away and berated herself for that thought. Pull yourself together. You’re probably about to talk to his ex-wife.  

“Lag?” Soap’s voice made Pip jump. Her head whipped around to face Soap again. He still looked half asleep, his eyes half-lidded. He breathed out sharply through his nose. “Spooky. You’ve got those glowy eyes.” 

Pip blinked. It was true; in low light, hideling eyes did shine red. 

“Go back to sleep, Soap,” she said. 

A soft smile shaped his lips, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came. He shifted to lie on his side. “You okay?” 

Pip’s expression fell. She looked away and fidgeted idly with her hands. “No, I’m really not,” she said honestly, “but I’m going to have to be.” 

Soap reached for her, his knuckle lightly brushing her shoulder. “Rough week, hm?” 

She snorted humorlessly. “You have no idea.” 

“I might—” he paused mid-sentence, eyes darting up. Pip followed his gaze to see Ghost’s silhouetted figure approaching. The lieutenant stopped at Soap’s bedside, his arms crossed over his chest. Even through the dark and his mask, Pip could see his raised brow. 

“‘Soap’s asleep,’ huh? ‘Didn’t want to wake him’?” 

Pip scowled up at him. “He was asleep,” she said tersely. 

“‘M still asleep, LT,” Soap said with a lazy grin. “Sleep talking.” 

Ghost rolled his eyes. Pip was tempted to do the same. “Shut up, Johnny,” he growled, but there was no real bite in his words. There never was, when it came to Soap. “Shut your eyes too, while you're at it.” 

Pip put her hand to Soap’s knuckle. “I’ll be alright,” she said softly. “Thank you.” 

Whether or not he believed her, Soap nodded, and pulled his hand away. He exchanged a quick glance with Ghost, then rolled over onto his other side and pulled his blanket up to his shoulders. 

Ghost’s hand came down next to Pip, silently inviting her on. She grabbed her backpack, her crutches, and her glove, then climbed into his palm. A faint smell of cigar smoke clung to him, his clothes. Pip inhaled slowly, subtly, drinking in the smoky-sweet aroma. Price must have lit one up while he and Ghost were having their late night chat. 

She wouldn’t mind a few second-hand puffs, if she was honest.

“Where to?” Ghost asked once they were out in the hall, well out of earshot of any sleeping operators. “Price’s stash room again?”

Pip thought for a moment. She didn’t need the temptation of liquor again so soon. Ghost didn’t need to enable her either. “No,” she said. “No one’s in the mess hall, right? I can work on my pelt when I’m done with the call.” Doing so would probably distract her from some of the grief, at least. And it was a more productive distraction than anything else she could see herself doing. 

“Should be quiet in there,” Ghost said. He turned down a corridor, headed towards the mess hall. 

“I still don’t want to talk about it,” Pip added. Just in case Ghost was curious. 

The lieutenant shrugged. “Still wasn’t gonna ask,” he said. “How much longer until your pelt’s ready?” 

“I’ll finish it today.” 

“Good. Then you won’t have to defile my glove anymore.” 

Pip froze, her mind coming to a momentary standstill. Fuck. Did he know? How had he found out? Heat rose in her cheeks, but she refused to give him a reaction. She wouldn’t even acknowledge his comment. It could mean anything, right? Absolutely.

“Why are you and Price still up?” she asked, pointedly changing the topic. “It’s almost four in the morning.” 

“Woke up. Couldn’t go back to sleep. Not sure if Price ever went to bed.” 

Of all her handlers, Pip was the least familiar with Price’s sleeping habits. Gaz slept pretty solidly, but he did tend to toss a bit. Soap, for the most part, was dead to the world when he slept, though he had woken up once in a startle. Scared the shit out of Pip that time. Ghost was more tumultuous. He didn’t move too much, but he was easy to wake, like his sleep cycle was on a hair trigger. 

But Captain John Price? Pip had never been around Price while he was asleep. 

She hummed a thoughtful note. 

“Who are you callin’ at almost four in the morning?” Ghost asked. 

She hesitated to answer, deciding how much she wanted to tell him. A part of her wanted to tell him everything in hopes that he would talk her out of this very, very stupid idea; another part of her wanted to tell him to fuck off and mind his own damn business. 

Ultimately, she settled on a vague middle ground: “It’s not four AM in America.” 

Ghost eyed her through his peripherals, but didn’t ask for any further elaboration. “Just don’t compromise us, yeah?”

Indignation flared in her chest, hot and fast. Pip whipped her head around to glare at the lieutenant, her lip curled. “Fuck off, Riley,” she snarled. She was pulling out the last name for this scolding. “Me? Of everyone here, I am the least likely to compromise anything.” Asshole.  

Ghost snorted. “‘Riley,’” he repeated. “Sounds like I’m back in Basic getting an ass-chewing.” 

“Probably deserved it then, too,” she grumbled. 

“Probably.” 

The mess hall was dark when they entered. Of course it was dark. It was four in the morning, as they’d established, and no one was in here. Ghost moved to flip on a light switch, but Pip stopped him. 

“I don’t need the light,” she said. “You can leave it off.” 

“All fine and well,” he replied, “but I can’t see shite, and I’m the one carrying you to your pelt.” 

“I’ll guide you. Sidestep to your left, turn to eleven o’ clock, and start walking.” When Ghost didn’t move, Pip tipped her head back in exasperation. In doing so, she locked eyes with Ghost. “We’ve done this already, Lieutenant. A week ago.”

“Same day you got blown up, yeah. I remember.”

She grimaced, none too appreciative of that little reminder. “Just walk,” she said sternly. 

And he did. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much of a change in his gait. His steps were a bit more careful, but he largely walked the same way he normally did, and followed Pip’s direction like a good soldier. When he was one step away from the table, Pip instructed him to stop, and he did. He felt out with his free hand for the table’s surface, finding it with ease. 

“This is good. Thanks,” Pip said as he set her down. 

“Let me know when you need me to come get you,” Ghost said, pulling his hand back once she disembarked. 

“I’ll be fine here tonight,” she replied. “You should rest.” 

“You sure?” 

She gave him an annoyed look, her wide pupils catching that red glow in the low light. “Am I sure that you should rest?”

She knew that wasn’t what he was asking about, but she turned it on him nevertheless. Her handlers needed their rest if they were to keep her safe. That was the only reason she cared. Absolutely. 

Ghost put his hands up. “Lucky I can’t pull rank on you for that attitude,” he said, his voice halfway to a growl. Damn right, too. Technically, none of them could pull rank on her—not even Price.  She didn’t actually work for the 141; she was just here to help on Laswell’s request. 

She also had half a mind to mention that Soap was regularly insubordinate—in how he spoke to Ghost in particular—but she kept that to herself. 

“Good night, Ghost,” Pip said with a dismissive wave. She turned away from him and pretended to examine her pelt, at least until she heard his soft footfalls recede into the hall and beyond. 

Gods, for such a massive human, he could be scarily quiet. 

Once she was sure he was gone, she released a heavy exhale. So, she was really doing this. She was going to call Dana. 

Why? She didn’t know. Closure, maybe? But what closure would this bring her? Was it guilt? These questions rattled around in her mind as she opened her computer and pulled up Dana’s contact information again. Before she could have any more second thoughts, she hit the call button. 

And it rang. 

Nervous energy drove her to fidget. She adjusted her headset. Adjusted her scarf. Adjusted her computer. Adjusted her headset again. Audio only to her? Yep. Voice modulator still working? Of course. 

The line rang twice more. Hope bubbled in Pip’s chest. Maybe Dana was busy. Maybe she wouldn’t answer. She wouldn’t be able to call this number back—

“Hello?” Dana. 

Fuck!  

Pip couldn’t find her voice. 

“Hello…?” 

If she didn’t say anything now, Dana was going to hang up. Pip muted her mic, cleared her throat, and forced herself to speak. Mic back on, she said, “Miss Ortega?” 

Dana Ortega. Formerly Mrs. Dana Ortega-Looker. She’d dropped his name when they’d gotten divorced. 

“Yes? Who is this?” 

Pip’s mouth felt dry. Swallowing didn’t help any. She cleared her throat again. “This is Agent Lagomorph. I was told that—” 

“Lag? You’re Lag?” 

She stammered for a moment. “Uh—I’m—yes, I’m Lag. Miss Ortega, I was told that you—”

Again, Dana interrupted, “You sound different than I imagined.” Pip didn’t know how to respond to that. Dana continued, “I imagined you sounding more like a stupid bimbo bitch from California.” 

Damn. Pip stared at the screen with brows furrowed, a little taken aback. The sudden hostility was simultaneously a surprise, and not surprising at all. “...Did he say I was from California?” 

“No. He never told me anything about you. Not even your real fucking name. A part of me thought you weren’t even real, but, with how tight-lipped he was about you, and how much time you two spent together…” She trailed off with a sigh. She sounded frustrated. Angry. 

“We were partners,” Pip said, keeping her voice even, “and our line of work requires the utmost secrecy…” 

“Shut up,” Dana snapped, making Pip flinch. “I don’t want to hear it. You say you two were partners, huh?”

“Yes—”

“Then why is my husband dead, Lag?”

The question hit her like a punch to the chest, dead center. It felt like it could have knocked the air from her lungs. “He—you—” she paused to take a breath, eyes closed. Calm. Steady. “He was your ex-husband. And he was KIA.” 

Dana scoffed. Pip tried to imagine her body language. Human nonverbal communication was still an enigma to her, but she’d been noticing some things since her introduction to the 141. Balled fists when frustrated. Raised heads. Puffed chests. Clenched jaws. Narrowed eyes. Some things were similar to hideling behavior; others were very different. 

“‘Partner,’” she spat the word like it was a curse, laced with venom. “Don’t partners protect each other? Have each other’s back? So why is Dominic dead?” 

His first name was less like a punch to the chest and more like a knife slotted between her ribs. Pip grimaced and dragged her hands down her face. She tried to keep her voice from breaking, but couldn’t completely mask the strain as she spoke. “I wasn’t near Dom when he was killed. I was performing my duties elsewhere at the time. There was nothing I could have done to protect or save him.”

Nothing at all. And that hurt to know. 

Even if she had been there, what could she have done? The “protection” in their partnership was largely one-sided, as it always was with hideling-human dynamics. 

She hadn’t even been able to see him before he was sent back home in a body bag… The last time she’d seen his face was right after he’d discreetly let her out of his backpack near the server room. He’d wished her luck with a thumbs up, then rushed off to rejoin Ghost’s squad. Fearless Looker...

“So you’re kinda useless as a partner, huh?” Dana cut in. Pip felt her nose crinkle, but she said nothing. She wouldn’t acknowledge that. “You’re the reason he and I divorced, and you got him killed.”

Well, so much for holding her tongue. “I had no part in your divorce,” she snarled. “You left him because of your own insecurities. That is not on me.” 

“Tell me, Lag, were you fucking him? Huh? Did you two fuck?” 

Pip nearly choked on her own spit. The audacity of this woman! “Wha—that’s none of your business.” 

“Anything other than a resounding ‘no’ is a ‘yes,’” Dana said. Pip could hear the cruel smile in her voice, which only pissed her off more. 

Who did this woman think she was? Why was Pip even talking to her? This had been an enormously terrible idea. 

“So he was cheating on me,” Dana continued. 

“No,” Pip said quickly. Defensively. She took a pause to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth. Calm. “No. He wasn’t. Never did. He loved you, Dana.” Another pause. “We only ever had sex after your divorce.” 

That was unnecessary. It really was none of Dana’s business who Pip—or Looker, for that matter—hooked up with. Pip didn’t know why she’d said that.

“Whore,” Dana spat. 

Childish. Petty insults wouldn’t hurt her. 

“Why didn’t you come to his funeral?” Dana asked. It sounded more like an accusation.

“I couldn’t attend,” Pip said simply. It wasn’t a lie. “I’m still on mission. Our mission. I’d like to send flowers, though, if you tell me where he’s b—” 

“Keep your goddamn flowers.” 

Pip pressed her lips together, a little frustrated, a little confused. Humans liked to place flowers on the graves of the dead, right? Americans, at least… 

“You really are the worst fucking person to be paired up with.” Dana said. “First you let Dominic die, and then you don’t even have the decency to take off work and lay him to rest? Did the CIA give you a new partner yet, hm? Another poor bastard for you to get killed?” 

Pip was starting to see red. She clenched her jaw. Balled her fist. Dana had to be intentionally ignoring what she was saying. 

Breathe in… breathe out… Disregard the comment about her new partner… 

Partners. Plural. Pip stole a glance at her cast, and the four signatures scrawled across it. She felt a pang in her chest.

This was a woman lashing out in her grief, Pip reminded herself. But fuck! Pip was grieving too! 

“You have no idea what we were involved in—what I’m still involved in.”

“Because Dominic would never tell me any—”

“Because you are not authorized to know,” she interrupted. If Dana wanted to act childish, then Pip would speak to her like a child. “Don’t get mad at me because you’re in the dark; it is not my decision. It wasn’t Dom’s decision to withhold things from you, either—about his job or about me. It comes with the territory. You agreed to this when you married him, Dana. When you first started dating him!” 

Gods, she remembered that day—the day Looker told her that he’d met someone that he really liked. Someone he really wanted to pursue. 

Pip had been skeptical from the get-go, but she wanted Looker to be happy.

“It isn’t my fault that you couldn’t handle it—that you couldn’t trust him—and chose to divorce him. As soon as you signed those papers, you lost all right to what little information you were allowed. Even this conversation—I am calling you as a courtesy, because I cared about Dom, and I know he cared about you.” 

“Fuck you,” Dana spat. 

Fuck you too, you hollow bat. Rot in the sun. “I think that’s enough. Good night, Miss Ortega. We—”

“He has a child.” 

Pip froze. She went silent for nearly a minute. Had she misheard? “...What?”

“He has a child,” Dana repeated, sounding smug. “Almost two years old. Born not long after our divorce.” 

Looker never told her about a child. And Looker told her damn near everything. She knew that man inside and out. She knew him better than Dana ever could. He would have told her if he had a kid. Which means that either Dana never told him, or that she was lying. 

She hunched over and started to type on her computer. “You never told him that he was a father?” It was her turn to sound accusatory. 

“Why would I?” Dana said. “It wasn’t like he’d have time for a family. He was always too busy gallivanting off with you.” 

Pip started a search. She could comb through hospital records of births in Dana’s area in the general time frame of a human pregnancy, but that net was too wide. She could do better. She felt no obligation to operate within human legal channels, either. Her whole job revolved around ignoring human privacy laws. 

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Pip’s typing slowed. She narrowed her eyes. 

“You’re a liar,” she said dryly. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I said you’re a liar, Miss Ortega.” Dana waffled, but Pip didn’t let her gather her bearings. “There is absolutely no record anywhere of a child born under your name. And believe me, Miss, I am very thorough when it comes to looking through records.” 

“I—what—how could you possibly—”

“What’s the child’s name?” Pip asked. She was no longer interested in playing nice. “When is its birthday? What is its favorite toy?”

Dana had no answers. She could only sputter and stammer. 

“Why would you try to lie to me about something like this, Dana?” Pip leaned back onto the heels of her palms and turned her head to the ceiling. Her energy was spent, and her patience along with it. “Even if there was a kid, telling me this is a disservice to Dom, more than anything. Not me. I’m done talking to you. We will never speak to each other again.” That was a promise. “Have a good evening, Miss Ortega.”

“You bitch! If I ever find out—” 

“You won’t.” Click.  

Pip breathed out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging under the weight of… of everything, really. She shouldn’t have done that. She should not have called Looker’s ex-wife. Nothing was gained from their conversation; it only served to reopen still very fresh wounds. 

“Fucking pile of rotten coyote’s guts,” Pip muttered in Hidespeak. Her native insults always felt so much better than English ones. Calling someone a female dog? A sex worker? A body part? Please.  

Telling someone that not even the hungriest vultures would touch their corpse—now that was an insult. 

Regardless, Pip once again found herself questioning why Looker had ever married that gutpile. She’d never liked Dana, and Dana hated that Looker had a secret work partner. Looker knew of this animosity. But it was never Pip’s place to intervene in his relationships. He was a grown man, after all. 

When Dana presented Looker with the ultimatum: her or Pip, their marriage or his career, Pip remembered his heartbreak. He’d taken emergency leave to try and work things out with her. Pip remembered the anxiety she’d felt, waiting at their HQ, not knowing whether or not Looker would come back, wondering if she'd have to be assigned another new handler… But he’d returned. 

Now that she thought about it, she couldn't recall Looker ever explicitly telling her that he’d chosen the CIA over Dana. He’d only said that she was divorcing him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

And now, here she was two years later. Looker was dead, and Pip was stuck with not one, but four untrained handlers, on the most dangerous mission she’d ever been assigned. 

This had been the single-most stressful week of her life. However… not that she'd ever tell them, but these four rough-n-tough soldiers were growing on her. Even Price. 

Ugh. She didn't want to think about that. 

Pip rolled her head to the side, looking at her pelt. It was dried and treated. Now it just needed to be shaped. She glanced quickly at her computer screen, noting the time. Quarter past four. 

Damn, she’d suffered a conversation with Dana for more than ten minutes? How miserable. 

The 141 would be waking up soon. Hopefully Price and Ghost could manage to get some sleep. In the meantime, Pip had a pelt to work on. She could try to distract herself from her woes with the prospect of finally having a proper disguise again. 

A sidelong look to Ghost’s glove gave her pause. She considered it for a long moment, then snorted softly to herself. It was a shit replacement for a pelt in almost every way. 

She wasn’t done with it, though. Ghost was just going to have to make do with his mismatched gloves for the foreseeable future.

#g/t #g/t fiction #g/t writing #call of duty #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #g/t cod #john mactavish #simon riley #pip lagomorph #poor gal's really goin' thru it :') #hyena writes #hyena ocs

[dilfhakyeon-moved]

coffee shop au 4 (the one with the different names written on the coffee on different days) with ralbert? :)

disclaimer: don’t give me shit for their names i am TERRIBLE at names

but yea here are the sappho de lesbos stans

Once again, the ‘mystery customer’ was striking.

That sounding pretty ominous, it was nothing that serious. It was just that every week, always on a different day, they’d get that girl coming in. And she’d come at times it was pretty dead, most likely to get the same barista. There she always went, leaning on the counter, giving these soft eyes and these sweet words, and she’d leave with her order. It was never the same order either, she just… drank of everything, apparently. Your fave could never.

Somehow, she was indeed having an effect on that barista she was messing with, but that didn’t make her any less frustrating to deal with. Yeah, the flirting was nice, but if she had a set name it’d just be so much easier, wouldn’t it ? Because giving a different name every week was getting a little old.

Of course, the barista would get quite frustrated after some time, how couldn’t she ? It’d been going on long enough. And the list of names… were similar, for some. Sometimes just complete unrealistic jokes. She could remember them all - Race, Racer, Racetrack, Antonio, Anthony, Tony, even Edmund and Ed,… Pretty Girl, too. Maybe this one was fitting, but Berta absolutely refused to believe any of these other names were that “pretty girl’s” name. For one, some of these weren’t names, and well… the others were masculine, and judging by that last nickname, she wasn’t a guy.

Either way, the redhead had a hard time staying calm as the blonde began babbling, her oddly squeaky voice fitting so well with her messy accent and pronunciation, her tripping over words and her obnoxious giggle sounding somewhat endearing… Okay, maybe she totally wasn’t paying attention to what she was being told and she got too busy getting lost in thought, but who could blame her ?

… Right, herself.

Once she woke from this kind of weird daydreaming phase, she tried to harden her expression a little. “Okay, yeah. And the order ?” She said, maybe a little harshly. But it didn’t bother her customer, whose grin widened despite her cheeks perhaps darkened a tad.

Quad venti blonde breve latte, extra hot, no foam, four pumps vanilla, three pumps cinnamon dolce, two white mocha, stirred, light whip, extra cinnamon topping.

This was ridiculous. Once again, the girl’s order had to be ridiculous. Maybe that was one time too much, and that “one time too much” the barista didn’t bother waiting for the girl to give her a name. No, she was choosing it herself. It was obvious to see on the blonde’s face that she wasn’t exactly expecting that, but did she really have a choice ? No.

“Look at it once you’re outside,” Berta muttered, groaning quietly when the girl smiled again and poked her cheek before making her way out, whistling pretty loud - and getting looks from other customers, although admittedly there really weren’t that many. It still grabbed some of them’s attention, enough for them to notice the  barista quickly yet quietly following after her, letting her coworkers take care of the place if even just for a few minutes.

Keeping sight of the blonde wasn’t the hardest task. She hadn’t gone far, just walked a few metres away and was now reading the name written on her cup with some sort of surprise.

Endearing, the shorter girl would tell you.

Casually enough, she made a few steps until she was close enough to the girl, before pausing and more or less working up the courage to talk. She wasn’t all that good at communication all the time, but she still tried. “So, Foxy,” she called out, causing the other to jump and turn around. Her gaze was always as captivating, perhaps due to how obviously emotional it was - reading her mind was impossible, but her state of mind was all too obvious at all times. What really got Berta though, it surely was how evident the blush on her face was. Striking, such a contrast with her blue eyes and her blond curls, that pink really fit well. Made her look softer, and maybe a little less insufferable.

Her lips moved incoherently for a few seconds before she frowned, and pointed at the cup. “Y'ain’t wrote that, it’s ‘Vixen’ on it,” she protested, getting the other to raise an eyebrow. Maybe it’d been easy to guess making that flirty girl flustered wasn’t hard at all, but it still gave her some satisfaction. Oh, and also it was cute.

“I know what I wrote and I know vixens are foxes.” That sure wasn’t the answer that girl had hoped for. Berta could see her bite down on her lip as she thought of a reply.

“… Yea, but– still. Why’s that anyways, I 'on’t look like a fox !”

“Reminded me of one.”

Could the girl make it any more obvious that she clearly wasn’t used to being teased ? Or, flirted with, depending on how she took it. Either way, just one more endearing, sweet thing about that cute fellow, and it kind of made the former more confident.

This time though, maybe she actually put some thought into what she was about to say. Nothing crazy, but she’d always worked on that “speaking before thinking” basis, pretty much ; having to really work out some sort of appropriate response, or even question for the situation. Because in the end, that barista had ended up following her outside, there must’ve been a reason. Yes, that’d be her question.

“So… What’s ya doin’ here ? Ain’t ya workin’ ?” She uttered, her accent somewhat worsened. Oh, maybe because she was chewing on the… the cup. Was that a stress reliever ? Whatever.

“I wanna get your name.”

“What, I gave–”

“Your real name, so I don’t sob to my friends about a cute girl named Anthony,” Berta insisted, almost mockingly - although that was all light-hearted. The poor girl seemed to whimper after “cute girl”. Haha, she found her cute, she could die happy was what the whimper meant.

“Well… 'f ya want my name, then I bet you should invite me for a sleepover some time !” The blonde tried. It probably came off as silly, even if Berta just thought it adorable.

“A… sleepover ?”

“Yea, like… the best kind'a date.” She continued, managing to sound genuine about it. “It ain’t too fast if I’ been comin’ to your shop for two months. We can totally have a sleepover.”

“But I could be a murderer an’ kill you in your sleep.”

“Bitch, wha’s the issue here ? I’d die a happy death.” She retorted - maybe a little too quickly. A chance she hadn’t pulled out the whole “oh, crush me with your arms” or any sort of stupid stuff she looked like she would totally say. And the redhead clearly wasn’t wrong about that, that kind of answer had definitely come out of that girl’s mouth a few times… Maybe she shouldn’t be thinking about it.

“So, name ?”

She seemed embarrassed to say it. “Anya.”

“That’s a real pretty name.”

“Yea, shut ya’ trap, spare me the compliments.” Anya groaned, her gaze wandering elsewhere. “ ’S just a name.”

“Sure, Anya,” Berta answered with a chuckle, shaking her head. “So you said a sleepover ?”

“Yea.”

“Then gi'mme your phone number or something.”

“Ya wrote yours on the cup.”

“… Ah, I did that.”

“Yea.”

It was her time to be embarrassed again, it seemed. Had she really forgotten so easily ? That was a shame for sure, but Anya wouldn’t be too bothered by it, she could tell.

“Anyway, I’m… I’m gonna need to go back to work. Maybe come more often. Oh, and you don’t have to run away everytime, you can drink it at the shop,” the shorter girl offered. But she was met with a head shake, and that bright, quite shit-eating grin the blonde always wore. Back to normal, huh ? Couldn’t stay away too long.

“Nah, I’m a busy gal ! Gotta get goin’ as well. I’ll catch ya later.”

“Oh, well…” Was that sadness ? Yes, maybe she’d have liked to talk to her some time, at the shop. But if she was busy, then… “Talk to you soon.”

Anya waved, blew her a kiss and then… ran away. And Berta watched her, frankly smitten. What a goddamn rowdy… cutie.

|Text| to: she alt deleted my ovaries

> hey> pretty girl here

|Text| to: pretty girl

> oh hey.> how do you spell yr name ?

|Text| to: she alt deleted my ovaries

> howevs u want idc> yknow if i didnt have no decency id have said such bs> like huge

|Text| to: pretty girl

> like ?

|Text| to: she alt deleted my ovaries

> crush me w ur arms

|Text| to: pretty girl

> oh my god> shut up> or i will

|Text| to: she alt deleted my ovaries

> pls do> >:3c

|Text| to: pretty girl

> you’re impossible

|Text | to: she alt deleted my ovaries

> ur used to it now suck it up> im even funnier thru text> i send memes> n shit> hey?> also> cats have three lips

|Text| to: pretty girl

> hey you know wht maybe u should sleep !

|Text| to: she alt deleted my ovaries and my heart

> lol maybe!!!!> wish me gn

|Text| to: pretty girl

> goodnight. dont dream of people crushing you

|Text| to: she alt deleted my ovaries and my heart

> hdskjdghsdh> ill update u on that

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