Work Text:
It’s fifteen minutes to closing when the door opens.
Mickey’s face immediately adopts a scowl as he flips another chair up onto a table, hoping the sound will alert the potential customer that they’re fucking closing soon and he should turn the fuck around and leave. When that doesn’t immediately happen, Mickey stares the guy down as he approaches the counter and looks thoughtfully at the menu, like he’s never been in a fucking coffee shop before.
Pretentious, coffee drinking prick.
There’s a reason that Mickey only works the late shifts, and a big part of that is the fact that he can’t fake a smile and pretend like he gives a fuck about the customers. The one time they’d put him on register, he’d scared every customer back out the door with his glare. It was surprising that it didn’t get him fired, but the owners like him for some fucking reason. Maybe because he’s not a pussy about doing all the jobs that the lazy teenage shit heads he works with refuse to do.
So he does the dirty work—the cleaning, the fixing, the transporting of heavy or hard-to-reach boxes even if one of the guys is a good deal taller than him and could easily do it himself. Nope. All those jobs are up to Mickey, and his coworkers are completely content with chatting up the people that can afford to drop five bucks on some frothy, girly shit. So he’s fine with it.
He doesn’t talk to customers, he doesn’t make drinks. It’s a good deal.
Mickey puts up another chair, emphasizing the sound of the wood slamming together, because this fucker still hasn’t gotten the picture. A few of the lingering patrons—regulars, he recognizes them and they recognize him—shoot him glances and fidget in their seats, but don’t leave just yet. Mickey can tell he scares the shit out of them, but apparently fear isn’t enough to make them get off their asses.
The guy waiting at the counter starts to tap his fingers, and Mickey presses his lips together, looking for patience or some shit. Thing is, he’s never really been one for patience.
“We’re closed,” he says loudly, not even looking over at the guy as he moves on to wipe down the next dirty table.
“Really?” The stranger asks in return. Mickey’s a little surprised his voice isn’t nasally as shit, like all the other pretentious fucks that walk through the doors every fucking day. “The sign on the window says you don’t close until eleven, which isn’t for another… Twelve minutes.”
Mickey huffs out an aggravated breath, drawing on his deadliest, coldest stare before he tosses it over.
“We look open to you?” Mickey gestures to the store as a whole, cleaning solution in one hand, rag in the other, and in the stupid ass apron they make him wear, he probably looks far from menacing. There’s a scratch of chairs being pushed out, and one of the couples hurries out, shooting looks over their shoulders.
That’s right, you better fucking leave.
“Door wasn’t locked,” the guy responds with a shrug, a dumbass smirk on his face that Mickey wants to get rid of with his fists. They do not fucking pay him enough for this.
He makes a display of putting his things down—look at what a fucking inconvenience you’re being, you piece of shit—before he heads into the back. Customers aren’t in his job description.
“Yo, Hannah, there’s some fucker in here who wants like a croissant or some shit,” Mickey starts as the doors leading into the back swing behind him. He’s not a fan of her, or the other dozen brats he’s forced to work with, but at least she tends to help rather than sitting on one of the stools and texting her entire shift.
She doesn’t say anything, and it only takes Mickey a couple of seconds to realize that she has her headphones on while she’s up to her elbows in what’s left of the dishes. Her doing them means Mickey won’t have to stay as late, but it also means that she’s probably just going to tell him to deal with the customer himself. She’s a bitch like that.
He grunts from the exertion of an argument that he didn’t even have, and turns around. They start fighting and he gets too angry, he doesn’t want to think about what happens. He’s too used to the steady income right now to lose his job by smacking some smart-mouthed skank. Even if she does fucking deserve it.
Mickey isn’t back behind the bar much. He cleans the equipment, and the drains, and basically everything else, keeping out of everyone else’s way like a ghost. Sure, he was trained and shit, and he even sort of liked it at first, but it takes some level of communication and friendliness apparently that he’s just not fucking programmed with.
The guy is still there, even though most of the other people have cleared out, except for that one dude that stays until the doors are locked no matter how much Mickey passive-aggressively harasses him.
Mickey stops by the register, places both hands on the counter, and waits, staring at the guy with a put-upon expression. If he wants to fucking order something, he can order it. Mickey doesn’t engage.
But the guy doesn’t say anything. Sets his chin in his palm and stares back at Mickey with the kind of amusement that prickles Mickey’s irritation, making the frown on his face start to twitch into a scowl.
This guy has fucking red hair. For Mickey, that’s enough basis to want to hate him. As if walking into a place right before it closes didn’t already seal that deal.
“Can I fucking help you?” Mickey finally spits out, aggravated, and the guy looks surprised for a second. Fuck. Right. Language. His eyes flick to the guy in the corner, but his lack of reaction leads Mickey to believe that he didn’t hear it. No one to bust him, then.
“Just a coffee. A small one.”
Mickey doesn’t even look before he says, “We’re out.”
The guy blinks once, but seems ultimately unfazed.
“You’re a coffee shop. How can you be out of coffee?”
“You see the sign on the window? ‘Cause we close in eight fucking minutes.” Mickey’s raises his eyebrows and juts his chin forward in challenge. “We done here?”
“A latte, then.” The guy looks like he’s about to laugh, like Mickey is some kind of fucking joke. “Or are you out of those, too?”
Mickey’s expression is dripping with contempt as his fingers tap against the register keys. This guy ain’t careful he’s going to get a coffee full of Milkovich spit.
“$3.70,” Mickey prattles, wishing there was a way to charge a customer for being a pain in his ass. He doesn’t wait for the guy to fumble with his wallet, grabbing the cup in hopes of making the drink as fast as possible and getting this asshole out of his sight.
“Wait.”
Fucking christ, seriously?
Mickey spins on his toe, eyebrows raised and teeth digging into his lip.
“What about my name?”
“Huh?”
“For the cup. Aren’t you going to write my name on the cup?”
This guy better be long gone before Mickey leaves for the night, otherwise he’s fucking dead.
Without a word, he picks up the closest sharpie, pulling the lid off and holding it between his teeth, staring the guy down with the tip of the marker pressed against the cup’s surface.
The guy seems to hesitate (and Mickey swears if this guy gives him some ridiculous fake name, he’s making the drink with mop water), eyes darting around like he’s nervous or some shit. They’re light colored.
“Ian,” he finally says, and Mickey just shakes his head as he scrawls it on the cup in his illegible handwriting. Fucking entitled dick.
He’s pouring the milk into the steam pitcher when Ian pops up on the other end of the bar, watching him intently. Like milk coming out of a jug is suddenly fucking fascinating.
“I like your tattoos,” he says, and Mickey’s brow furrows as he slides the pitcher under the steam wand and turns it on. He feels a little self conscious, making a drink while someone watches. It’s not like he forgot, but this isn’t exactly something he does every day. He’s just lucky the guy didn’t order a fucking triple mocha machicinno or some shit. It’s all fucking coffee to him. “Do you, uh, fuck up a lot of people?”
Mickey slides the cup under the espresso machine, hits the button, and throws an unamused glare Ian’s way.
“You lookin’ to be one of them?”
It’s crazy how fast this fuck’s bravado has disappeared, hiding behind the thin line of his mouth and wide eyes as he shakes his head.
“No, I was just… Curious.” He drums his fingers against the counter again, and the sound makes Mickey want to deck him.
The espresso machine sputters to a stop, and Ian asks, “So you guys don’t wear name tags?”
Mickey doesn’t look at him, just pays attention as he starts to pour the steaming milk over the espresso.
“They do. I don’t.” He angles the cup slightly, letting the foam ease out carefully.
“Why not?”
“It fucking matter?” Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t talk to customers. They don’t need to be knowing my name.”
“I’m a customer,” Ian prompts. “You’re talking to me.”
What the fuck is up with this guy?
“Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself, for all I care,” Mickey bites, setting the pitcher down on the counter and reaching for a lid. He stops when he feels a hand curl around his wrist.
“Don’t cover it,” Ian says in a rushed whisper, and Mickey snaps his arm back, like the touch burned him. He’s staring at his drink with wide, awed eyes, and Mickey realizes he’s fucked up. Forgot he was being watched, and fucked up.
Mickey grabs the cup and goes to set it down roughly, hoping the movement will slosh the image out of the foam, but Ian’s hands curl around it, preventing Mickey from doing that. Again, he draws back, searching for a way to retreat that doesn’t make it look like he has a tail tucked between his fucking legs.
“It’s a heart,” Ian says, staring down at the latte art like it’s something wonderful when it’s just fucking milk foam.
“Yeah, well.” Mickey turns his head away, rubs at his bottom lip and rolls his shoulders to keep from crossing his arms like a petulant child. “It’s the only thing I know how to do, so.”
“That’s fucking amazing.”
Mickey doesn’t know Ian from any of the other dozens of faces that walk into this place. Couldn’t tell anyone a single thing about him. Not his last name, not his favorite color, not what he does for a living. He’s a stranger in practically every sense of the word, and Mickey has no inclination to change that.
And yet somehow, with three words, Mickey can tell how painfully honest a person this Ian guy is. The kind of painfully honest that makes Mickey uncomfortable, because he’s never been that kind of guy—never fucking will be, either. Mickey bets Ian is the sort of person who finds someone’s wallet and turns it into the police. Bets he’s the kind of guy that makes guys like Mickey look like the scum of the earth.
The way he talks about the stupid foam thing is like he’s fucking proud of Mickey for doing it, like that makes fucking sense. It’s like a mom looking at some shit drawing her kid did and telling him how fucking wonderful it is, even if it’s just a bunch of lines all scratched together.
There’s nothing warm or fuzzy about the feeling for Mickey. All it feels like is a shitload of pity.
“Yeah, well drink it, you fucking caffeine nut. And get your ass out. We’re closed.” Mickey starts the cleaning cycle on the espresso machine right then and there, but Ian doesn’t move an inch. “The fuck’s wrong with you? I said we’re closed.”
Ian’s hands close around the cup—the art is still in tact, so Mickey knows he hasn’t taken a single fucking sip of the coffee he just had to have.
“What’s your name?” Ian asks, head tilting to the side.
“What’s it fucking matter?” Mickey throws back, pulling pieces out of the machine to dump espresso grounds into the trash. It should be the end of the conversation, but Ian still doesn’t budge. “If I fucking tell you, will you get the fuck out?”
“Sure,” Ian responds, and that stupid ass smile is back, the one that makes it look like he’s fucking won something.
For a brief second, Mickey considers giving him a fake name, and then wonders why he should even bother going through the effort.
“Mickey. Now fuck off.”
“Mickey,” Ian repeats, nodding a few times. “See you around then, Mickey.”
“I wouldn’t fucking count on it,” Mickey mumbles back, intent on his task, and a few seconds later he hears the door open and close.
Stepping out from behind the espresso machine, Mickey glances around—the lobby is empty, and he lets out a sigh of relief. This, right here, is his favorite part of the night. Hannah will leave, he’ll lock up, and spend the rest of his shift blissfully alone.
He turns to get back to work when he notices a five dollar bill sitting on the counter. Did the fucker pay with cash? Mickey checks the register, but the transaction has cleared, so why the fuck—?
It takes longer than Mickey would ever admit before he realizes why the money is sitting there.
It’s a tip.
A fucking good tip.
Mickey picks it up, glancing around to make sure that Hannah isn’t watching him, and then pockets it with a grin. After all, he’s the one that made the fucking latte.