Chapter Text
CG: YOU’RE IN A CLASS WITH JIMMY JOHN?
TG: no hes jimmy johns john
CG: WAIT, HE ISN’T ACTUALLY JIMMY JOHN *FROM* JIMMY JOHN’S?
TG: just john from jimmy johns
CG: I SURE AM GLAD WE GOT THAT CLEARED UP.
TG: the professor did role his name is john eggbert or something
CG: IF MY LAST NAME HAD THE WORD EGG IN IT I WOULD LIE ABOUT IT TOO.
TG: ikr
TG: anyway
TG: apparently he isnt even an archaeology major
TG: he says hes undeclared and a sophomore and probably gives his academic adviser night sweats every day of his life
CG: WAIT, YOU ACTUALLY *TALKED* TO HIM? WILLINGLY? ON YOUR OWN FREE TERMS, OUT FROM UNDERNEATH THE CRUSHING WHEELS OF LATE CAPITALISM?
TG: yeah i caught him after class got out
CG: **WHY**?
TG: jesus karkat it isnt like weve actively declared war on any sandwich shops and/or their buck toothed employees
TG: i recognized the guy so i talked to him
TG: itsnotthatdeep.png
CG: A MAN LOOKS YOU IN THE SUNGLASSES, TELLS YOU TO MAKE HIM A “RAZZLE DAZZLE FRAPPUCCINO” AND YOU STILL WANT TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH HIM OUTSIDE THE CONTEXT OF A STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL ENVIRONMENT?
CG: NOT TO MENTION HE LOOKS LIKE A MINECRAFT YOUTUBER FROM LATE 2010 WHO DOESN’T EARN ENOUGH ADVERTISEMENT REVENUE TO AFFORD AN 480p WEBCAM OR DENTAL WORK.
CG: THE THUMBNAILS OF HIS VIDEOS ALMOST EXCLUSIVELY INCLUDE WORD ART AND A SHOT OF HIM LOOKING JOVIALLY SCANDALIZED SUPERIMPOSED UNDER A SCREENCAP OF POORLY RENDERED PIXEL BREASTS, FOR THE LOLZ.
CG: “CRAFTTUBE WALKTHROUGH #345: NOT JUST FOR KIDS.”
TG: i sense you have a lot of feelings about this huh
TG: i mean ok so hes kind of a dweeb and yeah ok the secret menu thing was annoying but the dudes just so goddamn unabashedly himself its kind of
TG: charming?? in a sort of ‘how are you a real person who even exists’ kind of way
TG: the steve buscemi of sandwich shops
TG: like you know steve buscemi right
TG: kinda crops up where you least expect it with his sunken eyes and his distant disarming smile
TG: desperado
TG: con air
TG: spy kids
CG: OKAY, YES, I GET IT, I KNOW WHO STEVE BUSCEMI IS.
TG: theres a level of sincerity there karkat
TG: the world is cruel but john buscemi rises above
TG: also i grabbed the stores card at the end of my morning shift do we need anything from walmart besides coffee filters
CG: DO WE HAVE ANY HAZELNUT?
TG: que
CG: DONDE ESTA LA GODDAMN HAZELNUT.
CG: AVELLANA.
CG: THE SHAKER IN THE SPICE RACK IS EMPTY.
TG: did you check the set of shelves by the back fridge isnt that where it usually is?
CG: …
CG: I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU TWENTY SECONDS IN A MAGNANIMOUS ACT OF FAITH TO LET YOU RECONSIDER WHAT YOU JUST SAID.
TG: wait
TG: you cant reach the top shelves can you
CG: NEARLY AN ENTIRE HALF A MINUTE OF GOOD WILL, SQUANDERED JUST LIKE THAT.
TG: ok ok keep your unusually high rising tightpants steady captain lollipop guild ill be there in like ten minutes
Dave was gone for much longer than ten minutes, and his final destination was Michael’s, not Walmart. The Crimson Cup had a little more business that afternoon, and a couple of the tables near the front were occupied by a handful of students who were likely there more for the free wifi than the coffee. Dave was able to slip past Karkat—who was taking an order from a woman with a high ponytail and acknowledged the other barista with a quick nod—and into the back room with little interruption, a shopping bag tucked under one arm and a short black rectangle under the other.
As soon as Karkat covered the rest of the orders, he poked his head into the back. “Strider? Did you get the hazelnut?” His eyes tracked down to where Dave was kneeling on the floor, and Dave could practically hear him mentally buffering. Dave’s newest creation sat next to the fridge, and he took his time in unpeeling the plastic backing from the last foam letter—a giant red T—and gingerly placing it at the very end of the unfolded step stool. K-A-R-K-A-T read across the very top of the offending object, just tall enough to, hypothetically, let a shorter than average person access the top shelves.
There was an audible slap as Karkat’s palm connected to his forehead, and he dragged his hand down the entirety of his face. “Strider.” That very special pause for very special emphasis was back, and Dave tipped back enough to slide from a kneel and sit on his ass in a self-satisfied kind of way. “If you have any kind of appreciation for the fact I sign your weekly checks, at least lie to me and tell me you did not use the store’s card, and by extension, the Crimson Cup bank account, to purchase a plastic step stool with my name embellished on it in gaudy arts and crafts.”
Dave paused for a moment. “Okay, I definitely didn’t use the store’s bank account to buy you a step stool.”
“Thank God—“
“Except that I did, because it counts as a necessary business expense.”
“Was the foam lettering also a goddamn necessary business expense?”
“Will you at least try it?”
“…What?”
Dave broadly gestured at the step stool. “Come on, try it on for size.”
“If this is an elaborate attempt at mockery I would love to remind you I’m no more than four inches shorter than your diminutive—“
“Karkat, just humor me, buddy.”
The ensuing sigh was so loud Dave idly wondered if it was possible to let a lung collapse that way, and Karkat stalked towards the step stool. With absolutely no trace of zeal or enthusiasm, he climbed up to reach for the shelf—and easily reached the top, swinging the highest drawer open. There was a moment of silence. “We don’t have any hazelnut,” he announced, slamming it shut again.
“I bought some, it’s on the counter.”
Karkat dismounted from the stool, grabbing the container out of the Walmart bag Dave had left by the sink. “…The lettering is still ridiculous,” he muttered, but it was his parting shot before walking back out to the register. There might have even been a note of begrudging gratitude attached.
“Anything for my best friend,” Dave called after him, raising his voice just enough for everybody in the store to hear. Karkat closed the door to the back a little more firmly than necessary. Dave mentally chalked it up as a win.
The next day was a Thursday. Dave didn’t work Thursdays—Karkat was almost sad to wipe his SoundCloud information off the bottom of the board for the third time that week and settle in for a long late morning to mid afternoon shift. He snagged his apron off the labeled hook in the back room and tied it snugly around his waist, using the lull in activity out front to fuss over some of the ingredients in the back. Growing up, it was mostly just him and his grandfather (a decidedly crabby old man with stark white hair and a penchant for the absolutely disgusting roe cubes he stored in the freezer), with the exception of frequent visits from extended family. Being the only one in the household who cooked, he’d picked up a lifelong love of food, and he was fussy about the way it was stored and handled.
They were a struggling little coffee shop, school endorsement or not, and had Karkat installed the spice rack along the back wall himself about two months after he started working there. It wasn’t terribly tall or terribly wide, but the iron hooks screwed into the wall were a labor of love. Each label on each shaker was carefully handwritten, and half the displayed ingredients were things he’d ordered. Ginger, clove, cardamom, allspice—he ran his fingers over the glass undersides of each, straightening them out where some of the other baristas had thrown them in at the end of the last day’s shifts.
After that, he had to concede maybe he had been a little quick to dismiss Dave’s gift as condescending—the step stool let him do a full inventory, sorting through the shelves and seeing that they had everything that they needed. Halfway through going through the top row, there was a jingle at the door; Karkat hadn’t even realized it was already 1:15 until he checked his phone on his way to the counter.
“Hi Karkat!”
Oh God. It was Jimmy John from Jimmy John’s.