A/N: Short Feysand AU. I might make this into a series of AUs, depending upon whether people want it or not. If you do want me to make it into a series and you have an AU prompt you'd like me to try, just PM or review me and I'll give it a shot. :)

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Small Kindnesses

Feyre couldn't believe it had come to this.

She shivered in the brisk early-morning air, rubbing her hands up-and-down her pebbly arms. The bay breeze sliced right through her nubby jacket and seeped into her bones one at a time, each toe slowly going numb. She stamped her foot, exhaling sharply, and checked her watch. Seven o'clock in the morning.

Nesta had been pissed as hell that morning—pissed that Feyre had woken her up, that Feyre was doing this at all.

"Why can't you get a normal job?" she'd said. "Work at a car wash? Get a job as a fry cook at Wendy's?"

"Why can't you?" Feyre had wanted to snap, but didn't. It was an old argument, old and weathered and worn, buried under years of complicated history. She didn't poke at it anymore, didn't question or force the issue.

Instead, Feyre had said, "I'll still be working at the mall during the week. This is just to earn a little extra money."

"Then do something else," Nesta had snarled. "Don't just fuck around on Fisherman's Wharf."

Feyre grimaced at the memory. The argument had gotten heated—they'd woken Elain and her father up, and Nesta had almost been late for her date that morning. She was heading down to Palo Alto, apparently, with some boy she'd met at a college party.

Feyre balled her hands into fists and shoved them into her jacket pockets. She'd dropped out of school years ago—had to work, had to scrounge up enough money to get Elain and Nesta through high school and community college. God knew her father couldn't do it.

Bitter, she thought. Bitter and beaten and worn. That was what she was.

She sighed with resignation and headed back to her car, parked on the steep incline near the curb, and opened the trunk, pulling out the canvases. It had been a friend of Elain's that had told Feyre about the artists selling their wares on the streets surrounding Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, and Feyre hadn't been able to forget it since. The idea had wriggled around in her brain, demanding to be heard.

So she'd gotten the permit, scraped up the cash to buy a few paints and a brush. And after that, when she was at home late at night after her shift working retail at the mall, she had let the colors fly. They were ripped from her: torn, piece by piece, as if she were painting with marrow and blood and bone instead of acrylics.

They weren't especially good paintings, now that she looked at them again. In fact, they were mediocre at best.

Even her boyfriend, Tamlin, had raised an eyebrow when she'd told him. "Sell your paintings?" he'd said. "On the piers?"

She'd shuffled her feet. "I don't know."

"Oh, Feyre," Tamlin had said with a sigh, bringing her in and kissing her neck. "I know how hard you work. But don't… Don't do that. It's a stupid waste of time."

The words had hit her like a slap to the face. Stupid waste of time. Ergo: she wasn't good enough to make a handful of pennies on the boardwalk, let alone enough to compensate for a full day's work. She was such an idiot, thinking that she could do this.

And Tamlin… Tamlin would know. Tamlin was right. He came from a wealthy family known for its art collections. The only reason she'd ever crossed paths with him was because he'd ducked into her work once to buy a birthday present for his friend, Lucien.

Lucien, who didn't approve of white-trash Feyre one bit, by the by, despite her initial affluent upbringing. But the housing crisis in '08 had hit her family hard. She couldn't even remember what it was like not to count every cent in her pocket, what it was like not to sniff out sales and grovel at the feet of the Salvation Army and Goodwill.

Feyre stared at the paintings that she'd set up, that she'd set so painstakingly against the sidewalk, propping them up on stands or against the flowering bougainvillea hedges. She stared at the table that she'd set up, the metal lockbox, the little price tags that she'd stuck to the edge of the table. They fluttered weakly in the wind.

What the hell was she doing? What the hell was she doing?

The fog from the bay slipped up the streets, cloaking her in cool mist. A seagull floated down lazily, landing a few feet away. It cocked its head inquisitively at her, clicking its orange beak.

She would go home. She would go home, and she would tell Nesta that she was sorry, and she'd beg for a weekend shift at the mall. Forget painting, forget this. She'd been stupid, idiotic, asinine. Tamlin was right, just like he always was. Maybe she'd go back to his apartment first. She could use a bit of comfort, even if he was always busy these days.

Feyre was just about to pack her things back up when she heard the voice behind her.

"Are these for sale?"

She jumped a bit, whirling. A man was standing on the curb, peering at her interestedly.

For a moment, she just looked at him. Really looked.

Because even though Feyre had a boyfriend, even though she was clearly spoken for, had been for some time now…

The man standing on the curb was beautiful. Quite possibly the most beautiful she'd ever seen.

He was tall, broad-shouldered and muscled, with faintly tanned skin and a chiseled profile. He had a shock of silky black hair and eyes like crushed violets, and he was wearing a leather jacket and a pair of jeans, both of which, she knew from retail experience, were probably valued at more than her car.

He was yawning and holding a cup of coffee like a lifeline, and he was studying her paintings.

"Um," Feyre said. Because really, that was all she could think to say.

"They're quite good," the man went on. "Did you paint them?"

"No," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. "Well, I mean, yes, I painted them, but they're not for sale."

"That's a shame." The man took a sip of his coffee, peering closer at them. "You've got some real talent, darling."

Her cheeks flushed. "I… Thanks."

"I especially like this one," the man said, nudging one of her favorites with his foot. It was of Elain and Nesta, both of them sitting before a window. Nesta was looking away, her lips twisted down in a grimace, but Elain was smiling brightly, directly forward, her eyes flushed with giddiness. "It's beautiful." He turned toward her. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to part with it?"

She blinked. "I… Really?"

"Yes, really." He grinned. "So, was that a yes or a no?"

"That… Yes," she said, smiling brightly. She felt as if she might cry. "Thank you. I… Thank you."

The man might've been taken aback, but he wasn't. "Don't thank me. You deserve it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, rifling through bills and credit cards.

The movement sent Feyre into action. She retrieved some of the bubble wrap she'd saved and grabbed the painting, wrapping it up and adhering it with a piece of Scotch tape. She wasn't exactly sure if this was professional or not, but she didn't care. She'd gotten her first customer! Someone had wanted to buy her painting!

She couldn't wait to tell Tamlin.

The man was looking at her bubble-wrapped painting with faint amusement, his lips twitching. Her cheeks colored. "Did I… Did I do something wrong?"

"No," the man said hurriedly, shaking his head. "Not at all." He hesitated before pulling a card from his wallet. "My name is Rhysand."

She blinked. "Um… Hi. Rhysand."

"The reason I'm telling you this," he said, "is because my cousin, Mor, owns an art gallery a couple of blocks from here." He handed her a card. It was glossy, white, embossed with the words THE MORRIGAN with an address and contact information underneath. "Pay her a visit sometime. I'm sure that she'd be willing to help you—maybe even get you a job. If you want it, that is."

"I…" A lump rose in her throat. "Really?"

"Someone as talented as you are shouldn't be selling art off the street," he said with a half-smile. "Anyway. You don't have to take it or anything, but… I figured I'd give it a shot." He glanced at his watch and cursed. "Look, I have to go. I'm late for work. But thank you for the painting," he said, tucking it beneath his arm. He pressed a single, crisp bill into her hand. "And it was nice meeting you. Call me up if you're ever at Mor's, alright?"

And then he was running down the sidewalk, his cup of coffee sloshing in its container, and Feyre was left standing on the curb, her throat scratchy and eyes suspiciously hot.

Small kindnesses. That was what Rhysand had given her.

Feyre hadn't been given small kindnesses in… Goodness, in what felt like an eternity.

She unfurled her palm and almost dropped dead. She'd asked ten dollars for her paintings, but Rhysand had handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

She gaped before springing into action, glancing down the street. "Rhysand?" she called. "Rhysand!"

But he was gone—vanished.

Her lower lip trembled. Small kindnesses from a perfect stranger: a compliment, a connection, and too much money for a mediocre painting. He didn't even know her name.

She stuffed the bill into the metal lockbox. She'd track down Rhysand's cousin and get that job at the gallery. And then… Then she'd pay him back. She'd find him again.

So many things to do—a list made from those sweet, small kindnesses.

But just then, as the morning fog was finally pierced by citrusy sunlight, she couldn't help but smile.

A/N: Review and let me know what you think! :)