Archive of Our Own

“Shoot, she’s gonna kill me…”

Catherine raced through the streets of Fódlan, bumping people left and right. Her assignment in her arms, she struggled not to let any of the loose leaf papers fly off from her folder.

Beep-beep! “ Hold out your hand… ”

Her phone went off, including her ringtone. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to check the voicemail and strings of texts. She--

BAM

Catherine got knocked forward. “Oof!”

“Watch it.”

The stranger that ran into Catherine glared at her as she walked by. Catherine made sure to give the best matching look of intimidation she could.

Looking back at her phone, the texts and voicemail both confirmed that her boss had miscalculated traffic and was going to be at least a half hour late.

She heaved a sigh of relief, then put her phone in her bag. What great news! She could slow down, get some breakfast and a coffee, take the extra time to wake up…

All of those sounded like great ideas, but when she started to feel harsh tugs on her bag, she thought it might’ve been best to aim her priorities elsewhere. Catherine turned, tightening her grip on her bag’s strap.

“Hey! Who are you?” Catherine yelled at what appeared to be a man in a ski mask. “Get your mitts off my bag, creep!”

Catherine yanked her bag back -- she was pretty strong, after all -- which appeared to startle the man. It wasn’t enough to deter him, though.

“Give it to me,” he said, taking out a switchblade.

Okay, fighting against humans? Fine. Fighting against switchblades? Different story entirely.

Catherine bolted, but the man was just as fast.

Shing!

Her bag was no longer within her grasp; the man used the switchblade to slice one side of the strap, then went running in another direction.

Too startled to act, Catherine watched him, only a croak or two said. She then processed what happened and started to run after the thief; she was gaining on him when he face-planted! She sprinted forward and snatched her bag with the broken strap.

Wait a moment.

Upon second glance, there were tiny daggers sticking out of him . It wasn’t enough to keep him down, but judging from the frantic pace at which he scrambled to his feet and left, it was enough to keep Catherine safe.

She turned around at the sound of footsteps heading toward her and clutched her bag tight to her chest. When the crowd cleared enough to see the person it was…

…the same person who had bumped into her not five minutes before. Or longer? Adrenaline skewed Catherine’s senses.

The stranger didn’t glare, but looked Catherine up and down with scrutiny. Either way, it was still intense. As she leaned down to pick up her daggers and bag them, she looked at Catherine again.

“I… uh, thank you!”

“Did he hurt you?” the stranger asked, still doing their -- now very thorough -- injury inspect.

Catherine blinked, she hadn’t even considered that. “What? No, I’m fine.”

The stranger hummed, then dug in her own bag and started patching up Catherine.

“You have to be careful, here,” she said, laying a bandaid over a cut from when the thief must have slashed. “It can be dangerous without the right tools.”

“What’s this for?” Catherine asked, watching the stranger intently. She shrugged.

“I owed you a debt; I ran into you, and wanted to repay that debt. Nothing more.”

Ouch, she was cold . But, Catherine was finding out, maybe that wasn’t so much of a bad thing. Why not try to be cordial to this person?

“Thanks! I appreciate your help,” Catherine said, sticking out her hand for a handshake.

The stranger nodded. “Sure.” And walked back the way she came, ignoring the handshake altogether.

Speechless, Catherine stuffed her hand in her pocket. Rude! Cold! But… still helpful? This stranger was much like the opposite of most everyone she had ever met…

And those daggers . Who carries those around?

Catherine started to walk again, pressing her hand to the bandaid. If only Catherine could do something throwable like that…

----

Thanks to her boss’ late arrival, Catherine had time to go back to her apartment. She took time to wash the cut properly and apply a fresh bandage, then picked out another shirt.

She couldn’t stop thinking of that mysterious stranger?

“Daggers, huh…” she muttered, tying up her hair. What could be a long-range weapon if something like that ever happened again?

Opening up her kitchen drawer, she sighed. No weapons, although a pizza cutter with an ice cream scooper might’ve subdued an angry stoner.

“If I want coffee--... uh, shit, I can’t be late after Mrs. Rhea’s late!”

She stuffed a skewer and a few knives in her bag, slipped on her shoes, and headed out of the door.

----

Hurrying once more, Catherine scolded herself internally. Why , even with four alarms, was Catherine still late? Ugh, she’d talk to her boss/therapist about it later. Perhaps not a healthy boundary, as her colleagues often said, but Catherine was basically 2nd-in-charge! Who cared what anyone thought?

...Sure, Catherine was uh, talked to a few times about having ‘ an obvious crush ’, but that was nonsense. Her boss was just a beautiful lady that aged extremely well. Why couldn’t others appreciate that?

Rounding the corner, Catherine walked into her favorite coffee shop, Fell Star. There were enough people in line to give Catherine a chance to decide what she wanted. Reaching down and pulling out her card, she looked up into the same scrutinizing eyes from earlier. And they weren’t any friendlier.

“Wh--! Oh, you’re the one--I uh.”

“Yes.”

“Can I, um. Back there when we…? But I, um…”

“Is that your order?”

Catherine instantly fumed. “No, that’s not my order!”

“Yes. I’m joking.”

The stranger’s tone was monotonous and her expression matched it. Catherine couldn’t understand the shift in attitude. She slammed her card down at the counter.

“What’s your deal? Why’re you working here if you clearly hate people?” Catherine asked. She glared at the stranger, who returned it with a blank expression.

“Simple: I work to live.”

Catherine winced. If that stranger worked under her , well--

Staring into the stranger’s eyes, Catherine tried to get a modicum of something : good nature, good humor, the possibility of responding to small talk, but… nothing. What would her boss think?

“Hurry up.” A co-worker nudged her. “...Please.”

Catherine completed her order and went to sit at one of the empty tables. She jangled as she walked, what with her laptop right next to the knives she snatched from her kitchen. Nothing suspicious there.

And right on cue, the same stranger , now a barista at her favorite coffee shop, walked over.

“You sound suspicious. It’s company protocol to--”

“No, it isn’t.” Catherine stared back at the stranger, who might have been trying to have good bedside manner. Maybe.

“--It’s company protocol to make sure no weapons are on the premises. I must search your bag.”

Catherine’s eyes widened, but the stranger made no indication of what she had done earlier. Technically, she might have saved Catherine’s life, and didn’t she say something about a debt ?

“...Right.”

Catherine leaned back and let the stranger-now-barista rifle through the bag in her lap. It was a confusing mix of feelings for Catherine: obvious attraction to this cold individual and their deadly skills, obvious attraction at thoughts of that stranger rifling through other bags…

Okay, so it wasn’t a mix. Catherine’s face was beet red, and she was grateful for the rather embarrassing situation to explain for it.

“ Pfft. ”

Catherine’s brows shot up. “What? What is it? Is something contraband? I can go if--”

They were in the corner, so no one else but Catherine got to see the look of incredulity thrown her way as she held onto the various kitchen utensils out of view from others.

“Well! I!” Catherine started, indignant. When she heard the barista laugh, she was about to scold her, but…

Oh, that was a cute laugh. Oh no.

Oh no.

Swallowing hard, Catherine quickly put her hand over the barista’s, hiding her embarrassment from their views.

“I, uh, don’t have. Um.” Catherine looked away, noticing how red she looked in the window. Goddess, what was this day turning out to be?

She took out her hand and started to get up, but a gloved hand stopped her -- had she always been wearing those? --, and pushed her back into her seat.

“I appreciate your time, sorry for the intrusion.”

Catherine looked at the barista walking back to her station, then back down into the bag. She expected to find her assortment of cutlery stolen, but, instead, there were three, clean, throwing daggers with them, and a post-it note.

Shamir.

Her name was Shamir.

Having thoughts to the tune of ‘SHE GAVE ME HER NUMBER ohgoddessdoIaskheroutshe’sactuallyprettyattractiveonceyougetpasthercoldness,” Catherine almost missed her order being called.

“Ms. Charon?”

Finally, an excuse to leave! Catherine got up and jangled her way to the counter. She thanked the other barista who made it, then looked at the cup:

‘ Ms. Karen.’

She had no time to dwell on the sanctity of misspelling names on drink orders, as she raced to work.