Chapter Text
You wouldn’t say it was a dead end job.
Calling it dead end implied you were staying forever.
And you definitely weren’t.
The cafe had been a refuge when you’d first moved here; a small beacon of warmth in the otherwise dreary and rainy northwestern town you’d ended up in. You were never one to run from your past, per se, but there was definitely a big difference in where you’d come from and where you ended up . And where did you end up? You still asked yourself that sometimes.
What started out as a place to step in to get away from the rain soon became your regular lunch spot. And dinner spot. And just… spot. Dingy tan walls that seemed almost homely, covered in crucifixes and fixtures of Jesus not so unlike what you were used to before.
Well, not anymore. You weren’t that person anymore , but the familiarity did bring you some small sense of comfort whenever you were there. Days had turned into weeks, and weeks into a month before you ever got to meet the owner: a smaller, blonde, dare you say Karen-like woman who had owned the cafe for some years now. Inherited one way or another from some unfortunate fool who likely didn’t realize the space would be turned into a mockery of a Jesus shrine that would put even the most devout of Catholics to shame.
You had been desperate, and she had an offer, so how could you refuse? It wasn’t like there was much else to do here; this town was stuck in time, like some warped homage to an 80s horror flick. Quiet, sad, and lonely – and in a lot of ways you could relate to it.
Your routine, as of late, consisted of closing the cafe alone and working most of the evening, until you could return to your tiny little apartment to care for your plants and talk to friends who lived thousands of miles away. And while you were fine with it, mostly, it did start to get a bit monotonous. Lonely little echoes of a life not really lived in a lonely little town with lonely little residents, just like you. But what could you do? You needed to eat, to survive, to scrape by on a minimum wage salary until there could be something better. Something more, and something altogether less lonely.
So, no, it wasn’t a dead end job. Not really .
Nothing would last forever.
— — — — — — —
“And please– are you listening?”
Your head raised on instinct; you hadn’t been listening, no, but it wasn’t like Marie didn’t leave you with the same list of tasks everyday, anyway. Maybe it was senility, or maybe she was just very thorough, but did it matter?
Not at all.
“Yeah, I am,” you mumbled, removing an earbud for emphasis, “clean the blenders. Separate the new batches of tea, and get the street sign ready for opening. I got it.”
If Marie was put off by the noticeable exhausted irritation in your voice, she didn’t point it out, instead just lifting her chin a bit. For a righteous woman, she sure was a judgmental fuck. “And what is the deal for tomorrow?”
Shit .
“Uh… The… Blood orange drink… thing..” You fumbled, face a bit hot as you gripped the tea towel tighter in your hand. If there was one thing you hated, it was definitely humiliation, and humiliation from her just seemed to burn right through you. It was something about the satisfaction on her face every time she was right that just set you off.
“Blood orange tea,” she corrected.
“Of course. Tea.”
“And no sandwich special.”
“Right. Anything else?” You asked, hoping to anything Holy that might hear you that she would just leave you to your devices for the evening. It was already dark, the town plunged well into Fall, and you were just ready to get the night over with. You could feel the chill slipping in through the window you’d opened while cleaning and you knew you’d need to slip a cardigan on over your barista apron (which Marie expressly didn’t like) so you needed her gone.
“No, that’s it. Make sure you write the words ‘Blood Orange’ in red. It’s important,” she muttered, grabbing her own purse from the counter, sliding her obnoxious puffer jacket on along with it. “Oh, and please, don’t forget to lock the doors again. Anything damaged or stolen will be coming from your check.”
Right. Like you made enough for that, anyway. One of these days you’d just leave the doors wide open when you left, purely out of spite, but given how stupid Marie seemed to treat you, she might think you were just that dumb… Either way, you waved her off, listening to the small chime of the bell as the door swung shut behind her. You let out a small breath, surveying the state of the limited cafe seating by the windows as you began to work.
On the wall, rested two booths, nestled beneath a pair of windows that you, personally, considered perfect for yearning. Sitting there, feeling nothing but want– want for a better life, a better job, a lover even… They always looked best around sunset, though they were still beautiful even now, letting in the glow of the streetlights and adjacent parking lot and buildings. You stopped for a moment just to watch, the normal hustle and bustle of your town reduced to a few drunken stragglers and young couples star gazing. It was so rare that anyone ever came in this late at night, so really, you didn’t know why you ever stayed open. It was just a waste of manpower and money, but really, anything that cost Marie money might as well have been a small victory.
You finished wiping the booths and other seating down, eyes raking over the floor that definitely needed a deep cleaning, but a quick mop would do just fine for now. You were sure anything you did or didn’t do correctly would be put on blast in the team group chat in the morning, sent and discussed long before you crawled out of bed, phone vibrating until you decided to just turn it all the way off. Even your annoyance seemed to be scheduled, not even free enough to feel the things you wanted, when you wanted.
The bell chimed over the door again just as you propped up the wet floor sign, doing your best not to slip yourself on the hard tile floor. And, through that door, stumbled the only late night customer you could even begin to call a regular. A portly older man, cheeks always flushed and robust after his night out at the bars. He seemed to believe that the scent of coffee on his breath could hide the scent of alcohol from his wife, though she definitely was no fool. You had picked up just enough information and tidbits from Harvey’s life to feel sorry for him, and he was thankfully never a creep, just a sad, drunk, lonely old fool.
“Usual for tonight, Harv?” You called, already making your way behind the counter and wiping your hands off on your apron. You shivered in the cold air from the window yet again; you had hoped that mopping and moving around would warm you, but unfortunately it had not.
“Yeah–” A comical hiccup, “yeah, hon, just… jus’ the coffee.”
You hummed in response, gazing at his unsteady footwork as he went to move further across the floor. You watched him furrow his brow and scratch his head at the sight of the Caution: Wet Floor sign, something he was definitely too inebriated to read. One more step and his foot began sliding, a bit funny in how slow it seemed to be moving, but the last thing you needed was for a man twice your size and absolutely pissed to be writhing on your clean floors.
“Harvey, the floors are wet,” you chuckled. He gave you a somewhat defiant look.
“Wha…? You think I can’t read ?” He grunted, almost cut off by succinctly slipping and falling straight to his ass. You groaned, eyeing the security camera in the corner and motioning to the sign you had clearly placed. You dreaded filling out the accident report when you came in tomorrow almost more than trying to get him off the floor. Because, yeah, writhing was an understatement.
“Christ, Harv,” you hissed, slipping your apron off and walking over to try and brace yourself under his arms. One swift pull and a weak groan from him proved that point to be moot. He wasn’t going anywhere. “What did I say, man?”
“Coffee?”
The bell chimed again and your head snapped up, terrified of it potentially being Marie, metaphorically catching you with your pants down… Or, well, trying not to pull a muscle, keeping a drunk idiot off your floor. You can only imagine how quickly she’d panic and call the cops on an otherwise harmless person, one who didn’t even drink and drive, nor get too disorderly.
Instead, you found yourself staring up at another man. This one was stocky, not loads taller than you like Harvey was, but tall enough all the same. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses, despite it being night, and his formal attire looked completely out of place in a dingy little cafe like this. Even if Marie did insist that the baristas all dress up and look more professional, no one would ever come in with black slacks, a white button up, and vest like this guy. Not to mention the big, black, knit scarf that billowed around his neck and kept him concealed almost up to the nose.
Oh, and he was bald. Yeah. That, too, made your brain turn itself in circles. You had half a mind to find this guy strange, scary even, but you heard a small excerpt from the scripture that had been drilled into your head as a child playing through your ears. Thou shalt not judge. That is what lead you to helping Harvey so often, after all.
“Am I interrupting?” The man asked, voice not nearly gruff or deep enough for someone who looked that imposing. Instead it was soft, accented in a way that you couldn’t quite place, and though you couldn’t see his eyes you could feel them on you all the same.
“No! No, sir, ah, just… step over him, please. He’s…”
“Drunk?” The mysterious man commented, “sì, it would appear so.”
You took your time in observing him again, walking past you both to stand in front of the counter and look at the menu. You gave Harvey one last good shove, before you returned to grab your apron and wash your hands off, already dreading the verbal lashing after the cameras were reviewed in the morning. You’d honestly be lying if you said the thought of being fired didn’t excite you, but then you’d be homeless again so… Probably for the best if you tried to retain your position. For now, anyway.
“Anything on the menu strike your fancy, Mr…?” You trailed off, not too sure of how to address him.
“Emeritus. And yes, I was told there is a blood orange tea served here?” He spoke very eloquently, no minced words and no real emotion in his voice. It was very flat, almost as if practiced and honed into a vessel, only used to get what he wanted and for no other purpose. He definitely didn’t appear to be the type to enjoy small talk, that much was certain.
“Oh, yeah, we have a special starting on it tomorrow,” you paused as you surveyed the odd, new pump bottle of the dark red ‘blood orange’ flavoring, “is that what you’d like? We can serve them both hot or iced; the base is a blood orange syrup, blended with rose hips and hibiscus… I’ve heard it’s very sweet.”
The man seemed to tilt his head at that, eyeing the sizing on the chart above him yet again. “You have never had it, then? Curioso.”
Italian? Maybe? If you heard him say a Hail Mary, you’d know for sure.
“Oh, no, I haven’t. Never tried blood oranges, makes me think too much of actual blood when I hear the name,” you chuckled, “a large?”
“No, small, per favore.”
Spanish? Ugh. You should’ve paid more attention in both school and Church, maybe you’d be able to tell for sure.
“And, um, for the… temperature, Mr. Emeritus?”
“Hot.”
Right then. Aside from being an odd guy, he seemed as nice as one could be, for someone who walked around in the dark in a suit and sunglasses. You had half a mind to make a spooky vampire joke, but Marie was always quick to remind you that most customers did not care for your humor, so you didn’t. Instead, you moved to grab one of the small glass teacups and put the herbal mixture into the fancy, glass tea infuser that Marie insisted only be used for the blood orange.
While you began your preparations, you saw the man stalk around the counter, observing the religious iconography that covered every inch of free space in the cafe. You had dubbed a specific corner the ‘Jesus Shrine,’ after counting 14 varying crosses, 3 Mary candles, and 2 Jesus ones. All hidden in a small little alcove/cutout in the wall, surrounding one large picture of Jesus holding the lamb. You had always been more of a Judas fan, anyway. Not that you cared much anymore. The only remnant of your once devoted soul was the small gold cross chain that always hung around your neck. A petite and prettier alternative to a rosary for your confirmation gift, sent to you by some relative years and years ago that you were certain was probably long dead now. Mr. Emeritus turned to you, after observing the makeshift shrine.
“A Catholic cafe, hm?” He inched closer to the counter again.
“Only in the loosest sense of the word,” you snorted, “I couldn’t tell you the last time I actually saw Marie go to Church.”
“The owner, I’m assuming?” He trailed a single, gloved finger along the counter top and pulled it away to stare at it, before wiping it against his pants. “And are you?”
“Am I…?”
“Catholic. Religioso .”
You could feel his eyes zeroing in on your neck, the glinting cross, even though you could not see them. You placed a hand over it self consciously. “Not anymore.”
“I see.”
You tried to ignore the odd, slightly too-personal question in favor of continuing with his drink. After another long, agonizingly silent moment, you were finally able to pour the hot tea base into the mug, which you had also warmed. The only step left was to put the syrup in, a thick and sludgy substance that was hard to get out of the bottle, yet clearly mixed with something to keep it viscous enough to do so. Maybe you’d try it if you got curious enough one day, but maybe you wouldn’t either, given the strong metallic smell that came along with it. Something that Marie had insisted was just due to the packaging, that it didn’t affect the flavor. You couldn’t be sure, considering that only a handful of people ever ordered them.
Two and a half pumps, enough to take the drink from a light pink, to a much deeper red. You made sure to give the syrup a good stir, almost burning yourself several times in the process, before you finally got everything situated. You looked up to call out for the man, only to find him already tossing a crisp twenty dollar bill onto the counter, with his hand outstretched for the drink. Great. No card. Time to go recount the register.
“Just a moment, I’ll be right back with your change.”
He held the mug between his hands, giving a swift shake of his head, “No, keep the change, if you would.”
“Are you sure…? We, ah, don’t get to keep our tips, so…”
He frowned at that, staring at you over the rim of his mug as he inhaled the scent. You wondered if you had pissed him off by pointing that out, or maybe you’d made the drink wrong and he could smell it; either way, you quickly waved your hands in front of you to try and remedy the situation.
“Not that it matters! It’s very kind of you either way–”
“They ask you to work alone, at night, and do not allow you to keep pocket change ?”
Oh.
“If it makes you feel any better, dayshift can’t either.”
“It does not,” he muttered, once again stepping over Harvey’s now slightly snoring form as he went to take his seat by your favorite window. You figured that was the signal of the end of his socialization. It was likely he wouldn’t be returning, might even write a nasty review on Google, and that would be that for your interaction with the mysterious stranger.
You went to the back for a moment, retrieving the black storefront sign and chalk markers, shaking them a bit as you laid everything back out on the counter to begin your work. One of the only parts you enjoyed about being here was being the unofficial sign artist. Marie liked your handwriting, and you’d almost gone to school for graphic design, so it only made sense. Mutual benefits, you supposed; she got a pretty sign, and you could fuck off from your duties for the last few hours of the night, under the guise of completing the board.
You began, like every other time you did this, by writing ‘Today’s Special’ in white, blocky and modern letters, something the cafe desperately needed to draw in the younger crowd. Most people turned tail when they saw all the crosses, and to be fair you didn’t blame them. You might have, too, had it not been for your past. You began to lightly sketch out an orange slice with your pencil.
“You are sure you have never had this drink before?” The man asked from his position near the window, elbows perched on the table as he stared at you. His scarf had been discarded, giving you full sight of his face and sharp jawline. You blinked for a moment.
“No, I haven’t. Syrup kinda smells weird, it puts me off,” you waved, “why, is it bad…?”
“Not at all. Perfectly balanced, in fact,” he ceded, “you have worked here a while, no? If you make tea this well.”
Your face warmed at the compliment, even if it was not direct. It still felt nice to have your skill recognized, considering that Marie would just throw you under the bus at any given opportunity. You brought in the most tips, the most happy reviews, yet she seldom acknowledged your efforts. She even made sure that you, as her only part-time employee, would never even receive so much as a Christmas bonus. So, yeah, it did feel pretty damn good to hear, for once.
“I’ve worked here for a while, yeah. Tea is simple enough. The coffee is where the real artistry happens. Right, Harvey?”
Harvey snored a little louder in response.
“A friend of yours?” The man asked with the slightest smile, stealing another sip of his drink. You coughed and looked back down to your sign.
“Not really. Just an old drunk who comes to buy some black coffee most evenings. Not even to sober up, just so that his wife can’t smell it on his breath. He’s… nice enough.”
The man’s face seemed to sour a bit. “Seems more like a nuisance, than anything.”
“Harvey is… Well, yeah, I guess he is a nuisance. But at least he’s not a creep, y’know? I could have worse late night visitors.” You grabbed the light orange chalk marker to begin coloring in the rind of your orange peel. “Things that go bump in the night and all that, I suppose. Pretty sure humans are scarier than any monster ever could be, though.”
“You truly think so?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled as you finished that part of your drawing, grabbing the darker orange to outline it, “never met a monster before. Met a ton of fucked up humans, though.”
He nodded to you, letting the thrum of the cafe fill your ears as you finished with the blood orange. You grabbed the red chalk marker, lamenting that you needed to use that color for the text, knowing a complimentary pastel might look much better. But, if you didn’t follow Marie’s instructions, that was sure to be a write up. Especially when she explicitly told you to do so. You heard shuffling for a moment, before the man stood again to peer over the countertop and watch you begin to write.
“Red is an interesting color choice. Scontri, no?”
Your face warmed once more, “um, I don’t speak…”
“Italiano,” he clarified, “the red, it clashes , no?”
Good eye on him. “I think so too, but these were specific instructions. ‘Blood Orange Tea,’ written in red. No sandwich special. Unfortunately, I kind of have to.”
The man stared down at it a bit harder, then over your shoulder at the bottle of red syrup. “What an odd request.”
“Hey, whatever the boss-lady wants, I guess…”
Another moment of silence with the man still standing there, just watching. You hoped he couldn’t notice the slight shake in your hands, or the way your breathing seemed to get a bit more difficult. He was attractive, attentive and seemed smart enough. All things that made your heart want to skip a beat at the very illusion of closeness, even though you were separated by the counter. Technically.
“Your perfume. Incense? Dragon’s blood.”
You stared down at the board in shock. Keen nose too? What was this guy?
“Actually, dragon’s blood scent roller, and–”
“Patchouli. Very nice. A heavy scent, however.”
You weren’t sure what that was meant to imply. What constituted a heavy scent? Sure, maybe it was a bit stronger than normal perfume, but it was comforting to you. It kept you grounded and reminded you of where you are , not where you had come from. You didn’t think it was worth explaining all of that to a stranger though, so you opted for a more simple reply.
“I guess so? Maybe I’m a bit nose-blind to it now. I’ve worn it for years.”
Another small flick of his head, before he asked your name. You had a nametag on, so you weren’t sure it really mattered what you said to him, but you provided it nonetheless. It seemed to satisfy him, given the way he easily rolled it off his tongue as he bid you a soft ‘see you next time,’ dragging Harvey up along with him in the process. You were eternally grateful to have one less thing to deal with before close, but still a bit concerned, seeing as the man had never met him before. Presumably. Maybe he would take him to the police station, or just dump him off at some street corner. It would probably be fine.
Back to work.