Work Text:
The first time you see her in your coffee shop, you're bent double over your sketchbook, your tea sitting on the table in front of you long forgotten, and where everyone else is in shades of orange for the fall, she's a pale vision wrapped in startling violet, so tall you think she must have had to duck to get through the door.
You're not the only one gaping at her as she orders, thankfully, but you don't doubt that you're the only one who wants nothing more than to see her in a very large array of custom clothing.
Your clothing to be specific.
Eridan laughs when you tell him about her later, drawling, "You shoulda just talked to her, Kan."
You really should have.
xxx
The second time you see her, you are, again, in your coffee shop, and you almost break your embroidery hoop with how hard you clutch it when she happens to glance in your direction, her dark painted lips quirking up.
You end up with bloody finger tips from how often you pricked yourself and wind up completely redoing the handkerchief you're monogramming because of how badly you fuck up from her sitting two tables away.
She was reading a leather bound edition of a Lovecraft collection.
xxx
The third time you see her, you're a mess, trying not to panic over not having a female model for your upcoming show and you don't even notice when she sits down across from you.
"Those are lovely designs," she says, long fingers wrapped around her cup. You look up from you book, the pencil you had been tapping against the paper stilling in your fingers. Up close, you find she's even more elegant, ethereal in her beauty.
You sputter out, "I need you in my clothes," before you fully process the thought and both her eyebrows raise and then she laughs with an unattractive but entirely endearing snort.
"I'd be honored," she says, grinning.
xxx
You find she still towers over you flat footed, breaching six foot easy, and that she slouches when she knits.
xxx
She kisses you for the first time when you're both piss drunk and Eridan whoops. She throws one of her shoes at him, which misses completely, and you tell him he looks ridiculous laying on the kitchen floor, cackling in only a pair of fishnets and his designer briefs.
He retaliates by puking on one of your shoes the next morning.
(And what starts as a shopping trip so he can replace the pair for you ends in five hours of him bitching over how he can never find a blouse that fits.)
xxx
She hates it when you quote Shakespeare at her. You hate it when she quotes Lovecraft at you.
You both love real chai tea and the sound of rain on the fire escape.
xxx
Every time she talks about her twin, you have visions of matching ensembles and elegant albino giants striding down the runway. She laughs when you tell her this and says, "He's a strider all right."
You don't get the joke until after she explains that he took their father's name, while she took their mother's.
xxx
She invites you back to her house for Christmas and kisses the tip of your nose when you remind her you don't celebrate Christmas. She reminds you that, as a religious institution, neither does she.
"But," she adds, "Dave's boyfriend's family is coming too, so there will actually be real food."
"So are they actually dating now?" you ask, surprised.
She gives you a wry grin. "No."