She's not supposed to hate customers, and yet, there he is, the asshole with black eyes and bitter laughs.

He doesn't laugh much, she'll be honest. Only a few times, when Alina was sure he heard her muttering about people who asked for coffees that were more add ons than, well, coffee. But when she turned to face him - dressed in black clothes, always reading a book encased in cracked leather -, he's the face of academic boredom, drinking his black coffee as dark as her eyes and pretending to be disaffected. He's kind of her type, all dark, brooding and looking like he just jumped out of a young adult murder mystery book.

But Alina knows he's not as blasé as he plays himself to be. She knows he was listening to her muttering, and knows he laughed. Then, again, it's not like she can ask, can she? Not without sounding absolutely lunatic and paranoid. So Alina said nothing and seethed in silence.

It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.

He's named… She doesn't know. Every time he comes to the little hole in the wall coffee shop Alina works in he says a different name. Sometimes she Googles it quickly, while his coffee brews, and finds it's the name of the saint of the day. It's always like this with him. He always comes, twice a week, around three in the afternoon (which makes her think he's a college student for some reason), cracked leather book in tow, just enough cash in hand to get a black coffee and nothing else. Sometimes Alina thinks of throwing him a muffin for free or something. She never does. There's a line they don't cross, and it's better this way.

So when he comes in one day, she already knows the saint of the day, and has it ready on the tip of her tongue. He goes to the till, which she is manning today (as every day. Her coworker takes a smoke break around this time to talk with her boyfriend, which means Alina has to both get the orders and make the drinks. It's a pain in the ass, if she's honest), and they go through the usual dance.

When she asks for the name, Alina can't help but hope the glee on her face isn't too visible.

"Name?" She asks, pen in hand, the shitty paper cup in her hand ready and poised. He opens his mouth. "Wait, let me guess. Aleksander? Or is it another saint?"

He closed his mouth, blinked, grey eyes befuddled.

"What kind of luck do you have?" He replied, instead, this stranger whose name she didn't know. "Aleksander happens to actually be my name."

Alina let the pen fall from her hand, and silence fell on the coffee shop. There was the hum of cars on the outside, and the distant sound of the radio overhead filtering in, but Alina ignored those.

"Please don't tell management." She confessed, cheeks red. He laughed, dryly, and she now knew, for certain, that he had been the one laughing all this time.

Bastard.

"Oh, I would never. this has been the most fun I've had in years, actually." There's a gravity to his voice. Alina does not raise an eyebrow. He puts two dollars and exact seventy-nine cents on the grimy counter. "Here."

The coffee. Yeah, she had a job to do. Alina grabbed a new pen, abandoning the other to its fate underneath the till, and hastily wrote Aleksander on the cup. Then, she went for her station, leaving the cashier abandoned as she served Aleksander his black coffee.

She gave him his cup, and he already has his nose buried in the book he carried around. Alina would say something, but people came in, filtering in from their classes at the nearby college, and Alina had to focus on drinks.

He laughs at her mutterings once more. Now with a name (a real one) to his face, it's hard to not bicker, but Alina manages. Somehow.

When the rush was over, Alina glanced at his usual spot, finding it vacant, except for the paper cup, abandoned. Biting back a sigh, Alina grabbed the cup - he usually put it on the trash, for fuck's sake - and finds something more scribbled on the cup, in black ink.

She squints to it, mouthing off the numbers until the realization it was a phone number dawns on her. Alina grabs a pen from nearby, inscribes the number on her arm, and prays to whatever saints that will listen that it won't fade from her skin.

It's not that she wants to text him. Alina tells herself it's just an excuse to tell Aleksander that she knows he's laughing at her. Yeah, that's just it. Nothing more, nothing less.

---

He's old. Ancient, almost. Aleksander has been body-hopping for so much time a name or another feels almost inconsequential. So he took to naming himself after saints, after a while.

What's in a name, anyway? It's not like he's The Darkling anymore. His powers are a shadow of their former self, almost a joke, and all amplifiers went extinct. All grishas nowadays were like that: little party tricks with none of the former glory, of the former power.

He can manipulate a shadow, but not create a fold. It's torture.

There's only two constants to this cursed existence: one, he always looks like he always did. Two, he always finds Alina, or she finds him; even in lifetimes where he kept away, the girl with white hair and familiar eyes would find him. Be it as a little shepherd, lost and seeking the sheep she took care for and he, a hermit trying to get away from the world until the next incarnation, or as the sad queen consort of a king, their eyes meeting, for a fleeting second, in a crowd - where he could swear she recognizes him, but does she, or is it the desire for familiarity a broken mind had? -, they always find each other.

It's funny how she always has the same name. No matter where he goes, there she is: brown eyes, white hair. Sometimes she explains it as a remnant of a childhood sickness. Other times it's proof of being a witch. There's one memorable occasion where the answer is albinism. Lately it's been dyed that way. It doesn't matter. Alina is Alina.

This Alina, the one working on the little coffee shop, is no different: he can see the roots peeking out of the top of her head. It's adorable in a way he cannot put in concise words.

So he does not. He sits in his corner at the counter and drinks his terrible coffee and reads his book. He laughs at her sometimes. He knows she knows of this. It's fun.

As much fun as seeing a ghost of someone else is, anyway.

He doesn't expect his little saint of the day naming game to be caught, but she surprises him. She always surprises him.

Maybe that's why Aleksander gives her his phone number. It's been centuries ever since he willingly interacted with an Alina; the last one had been the witch, burnt at the stake after she saved a country. He had been too late to be anything but her confessor, pretending to be a priest, so he listened to her rage and cry about the unfairness of the world, and then he watched her burn.

He doesn't expect this Alina to send anything, to call, to interact. As if they've been told to not to by the original Alina, they never do.

Aleksander does not want to think about what that means.

So he stays at his home, a terrible apartment with little light. He feels at home in the shadows, and can pretend that they're of his own making. He keeps his phone charged and reads his old books and does not expect to be contacted.

When it vibrates softly against the leather cover, he raises an eyebrow. Aleksander almost wants to ignore it; he knows it's probably just spam.

When it keeps vibrating, he picks it up. There's an unknown number calling. Aleksander accepts the call.

"Hello?" Says Alina's voice, through the speakers. "Aleksander?"

If anyone asks if he drops his phone when she says his name, he'll lie.

"Yes. Alina, I suppose?" Aleksander replies, keeping his cool.

"Yeah. Just so you know, you're a weirdo. Honestly, why the hell are you pretending to not laugh at me? I know you're laughing. You know I know. So why play this game?"

He smiles, amused. Maybe this will be fun, for once. It's been so long since he had fun.

"I wonder the same." Is all he replies to her. "I'd ask if you wouldn't like to grab a coffee any of these days, but maybe that's a bit redundant."

She laughs.

"Yeah, you're right. Say, what about a movie?"

"Sure."