Title: "A Taste of Summer" Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean Rating: PG Disclaimer: Never happened. Summary: Wherein Orlando doesn't have frostbite, Sean's got a great smile, and this could be the start of something for the both of them. Notes: For Jackie for her birthday, based on her prompts. Thanks to Gigi for the once over. Orlando shivers under his greatcoat and wraps his brightly colored scarf more firmly around his neck to ward off the next gust of arctic air. He should have brought another scarf. Or a hat. His ears feel like they're to fall off from the cold. Not that he thinks it's really physically possible for his ears to part ways with his body, but nature is full of stranger things. Like the weather, for instance. Winter had come from out of the blue – with a friggin' vengeance – sort of bypassing fall altogether, and the wind blowing in from the lake is the sort of harsh that Orlando associates with really cheap whiskey. Although, he has to admit, a shot of whiskey – even cheap rotgut – would be welcome right now, if only to serve as a buffer to the insane bitter cold. He glances up. The sky is grey, overcast, with low-hanging clouds that threaten snow, but he knows it's too cold for it. Which is just wrong in all kinds of ways, and definitely should be against the laws of nature. He shoves his gloved hands deeper in his pockets and races across the street, feeling the shock of pins and needles under his skin at the movement. He needs to get inside for a little while, warm his toes up before he dies of frostbite. Did people still even die of frostbite these days? There isn't much traffic on the sidewalks, which isn't surprising, as most people have to be saner than Orlando and indoors, with a roaring fireplace to warm their feet and hot toddies to warm the rest of them. Not that Orlando precisely knows what's in a hot toddy, but it sounds warm. Although maybe he should be thinking of white-sand beaches and tanned girls in string bikinis and warm water washing over him with each wave instead of fireplaces. With a fireplace, he'd still be in winter weather, whereas a balmy beach would be, well, warm. He wonders if he has enough vacation time left this year for a quick trip someplace tropical. Someplace with sunshine and soft breezes. The wind howls through the buildings surrounding him, creating a tunnel. It's sort of like being buffeted by a leaf-blower or maybe a cold tornado. Were tornados cold? Another question for the ages, or maybe it's just a sign that Orlando really needs to get to his office and get warmed up. Once again, he curses his job, and stupid deadlines that force him to work on the weekend. The door to the coffee shop right down the street blows open, startling Orlando with the sound. He glances up, sees a man standing there, waving him over. He doesn't know the guy, even though he's passed by the shop every day for the past two years. He doesn't really like coffee, first off, and second, the place has a sort of ridiculous name. Seriously, who named their downtown coffee shop Cupcakes and expected to be taken seriously by the businessmen who are supposed to be your regular patrons? "C'mon, get out of the cold." The man holds the door open, shivering beneath his bright blue sweatshirt and faded jeans. As far as invitations go, it's pretty hard to resist, even though Orlando knows he should tough it out for the next six blocks to his office building. Instead, he hurries inside, trembling in the foyer area as he hears a lock click behind him. The other man steps in front of him, eyes full of concern as he shakes his head in a thoughtful manner. Shaggy strands of blond hair fall across his forehead at the movement. Orlando thinks once again of white beaches and warmth. The tiny crinkles around the other man's eyes would suggest age to some – and Orlando is pretty sure that the guy's got a good decade on him – but, to Orlando, crinkles and laugh lines have always meant a life well lived. A life with laughter and friends and family and knowing how to make each small moment count. He wonders when he'd lost sight of that with his own life. Possibly around the time his last relationship went bust. Or when he'd started working later and later, foregoing outings with his friends and family, because it'd been easier than answering awkward questions. "Christ, yer chilled to the bone." Steady hands grip his shoulders, steer him towards one of the booths. "Have a seat. I'll be right back." Orlando gratefully slides into the seat, but doesn't take off his coat. He's still far too cold for that, even though he does unwrap his scarf and pull off his gloves. His fingers are lifeless and a scary sort of white. He rubs them together, hoping the friction will help. A few moments later, the other man comes back with a steaming hot mug topped with whipped cream. "Hot chocolate," he says, and slides the mug towards Orlando as he takes the seat across from him. "Drink up. It's me gran's special recipe." "Thanks. I appreciate it." Orlando grasps the mug, heat seeping through the porcelain to his skin. His fingers protest the sting, but he knows they'll thank him in the morning. The first taste is sweet, richly decadent, and has a kick to it that would fell a wild boar. He coughs, fire surging down his throat and through his body. White teeth flash and laugh lines appear around a generous mouth. "A little of the Irish helps it go down easier." "No wonder your shop's successful," Orlando replies, when he can speak without choking. "Jesus. You spike everyone's drink?" "Nah, not everyone gets gran's recipe," the other man replies. "It's a respectable coffee shop, not a bar." "And every respectable coffee shop has a bottle of Jameson's lying around the back, I take it?" "Of course," comes the reply, like it's only obvious. Which, maybe it is. Clearly, Orlando hasn't spent enough time in coffee shops. "I'm Sean, by the way. This is my place." "Orlando." He accepts the offered hand, shivering when the heat of Sean's touch travels up his arm in tiny electric shocks. Definitely warming up. "What in Christ's name are you doing out in that, anyway?" Sean jerks a thumb at the window, and the wind that Orlando can still hear whistling down the street. "Headed to the office to get a jump start on the week." "On a Sunday? Yer company ever heard of a day of rest?" "Sleep when you're dead, right?" Orlando tries to make it a joke, but he's pretty sure it falls flat. So many things in his life have been falling flat lately. Has to be frostbite, that he's thinking like this. Or the weather. He's not normally this melancholy. Maybe he's got SADD or whatever it is. "There's more to life than work." "So I've heard," Orlando replies quietly, then speaks again, trying to change the subject. The last thing he wants to do is talk about himself and his pathetic lack of a life outside of work. "Cupcakes, huh," he says with false cheer, looking around the brightly lit room, with its welcoming blonde wood counters and equally welcoming booths and chairs and cheerful art on the walls. The display cases by the register are all empty, but Orlando has no problem imagining them filled with mouth-watering pastries and cakes and other sweets, has no problem imagining Sean behind the counter, working the espresso machine, serving up smiles as well as cappuccino to his customers. It's a nice image. "What made you choose that name?" "My daughter's idea," Sean chuckles ruefully. "My youngest daughter's, I should say. The other two weren't too keen on it, but they came around. I think she bribed them, to be honest." Daughters, plural. Orlando glances down at Sean's hands, but doesn't see a wedding ring. Not that it means much – Sean must work with his hands a lot. Probably wears it on a chain or something. Orlando wonders why he's disappointed. "Tell her she's got good taste." Now that he knows the story, he feels bad about slagging it off. Even if he does think it's an incongruous name. "I'll be sure to next time I see her. They're with their mother this weekend," Sean clarifies, at Orlando's questioning look. "We divorced several years ago." "Oh. I'm sorry." He's puzzled by the jolt of relief that surges through him. "Must be tough. With kids, I mean." "We still get on, and not just for the girls. She's a good woman. Just...we're just not what the other needs." "People change," Orlando muses, more to himself than Sean. He thinks about himself and Miranda, himself and Karl before that, and how he still is friends with both of them, but that neither of them had been exactly what he'd been seeking. Not that he knows precisely what he's looking for, but he hopes he's smart enough to figure it out when presented with the opportunity. He's not that far gone, or so he likes to think. "Aye, they do. Would you like another?" Sean points at the empty mug. "It's nothing to whip one up." "I should be getting on," Orlando says, with a reluctance he wouldn't have believed possible fifteen minutes ago. This has been the most genuine conversation he's had in weeks. Which is sort of pathetic, really, considering all they've done is share small talk. He needs to get out more. "Oh." Sean's face falls in disappointment. It's a little like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. "Well, at least let me fix you a to-go cup before you head back out." Orlando thinks about the paperwork waiting for him at his cold, lonely desk. Thinks about his cold, lonely apartment and the take-out he'd been planning on ordering later. He looks at Sean – at the white-blond of his hair, the clear green of his eyes, the easiness of his smile – and feels that warmth tugging through him again, insistent. Persistent. Like a sign. Like maybe it's time to pay attention. "Do you have any cake?" he asks, after a beat of silence. Sean's brows furrow together in confusion, or thought, Orlando's not sure. "Aye, I've got some carrot cake and, um, German chocolate, and um...I think a bit of coconut." "Which one's your favorite?" "The coconut, why?" "If I stay for another drink, you have to share a slice with me. And I expect more whiskey this time." Sean's smile lights up the room and something deep inside Orlando as well. He returns it, infusing it with all of the newly found warmth inside him. "Wait here," Sean says again, and slides out of the booth. Orlando just nods, and hands Sean his mug. Their fingers brush together. Both of them freeze for one telling moment. "I'm not going anywhere," Orlando promises. "Good," Sean replies. If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!