Chapter Text
“Well, you certainly look like a barista. How do you feel?”
Like a fraud , Martin didn’t say. He didn’t think it’d go over well. He’d only worked at the Magnus Cafe for approximately fifteen minutes, and sure he trusted Tim enough to admit he lied on his application (he had to, he needed someone to teach him how to, well, make coffee, and Tim was the only other person working with him that morning), but he’d only known the guy for approximately fifteen minutes and didn’t want to push his luck and get fired on his first day and have to find another job he wasn’t qualified for …
“I, uh, feel like a barista?” Martin hazarded.
“That’s the spirit!” Tim clapped him on the back and led him further into the cafe. Although really it wasn’t a cafe, really it was just a sort of large kiosk in the middle of a shopping mall, but it called itself the Magnus Cafe so Martin thought he’d also call it a cafe. Out of respect.
“So,” Tim continued, leaning against the bar. “Lying on your CV, eh? Respect, but you are gonna need to know what’s what if you’re gonna work here. Know what this is?” He gestured to the machine behind him.
“An espresso machine.” Martin was a liar, not an idiot.
“Know what it does?”
“Er. Makes drinks?”
“Know how to use it?”
Martin sighed. “Not a clue.”
“There we go.” Tim gave him a wink and a fingergun. It was somewhat disarming.
And for the next half hour or so Tim showed him … everything. Or, it felt like everything, at least. After learning how to pull a shot, how to steam milk, the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, what the hell a macchiato even was, how many shots of espresso and pumps of flavor syrup to use, and the proper order in which all the steps go, Martin thought he rather had a handle on this whole barista thing.
Until an old man strolled vaguely towards the counter, and Tim beamed at him and exclaimed “Ah, the Jurg-meister has arrived! One medium London fog coming right up!”
Martin didn’t know what a London fog was. Tim hadn’t covered that in his drinks crash course.
Also, were they even open? Martin was sure the mall didn’t open until 11, and it was barely 8.
“Are we even open?” he muttered to Tim as soon as he’d finished ringing the man up. “I thought the mall didn’t open ‘till 11, and it’s barely 8.”
“The mall does open at 11,” Tim explained, “but we open at 8. Also it’s like, 8:07, we’ve been open for seven minutes. Do you know what a London fog is?”
“No.”
A London fog, it turned out, was one part Earl Grey, one part steamed milk, with a half shot of vanilla. It was not listed on the Magnus Cafe menu.
Martin hoped he wouldn’t have to remember too many drinks that weren’t on the menu.
“Here you are, Jurgen,” Tim said when they were done, handing the drink off to the old man with a smile. “Hope you have a lovely day! Come back soon!”
The man took his drink and shuffled off with neither a ‘thank you’ nor a smile.
“I hate that guy so much,” Tim muttered, smile still plastered to his face. Martin stared at him.
“Okay? Why?”
“He’s just a bastard,” Tim shrugged. “Always grumbly. Never smiles. Might’ve killed a man in his youth, but Sasha says there’s no proof. Rich as hell and it shows . Just watch, he’ll be back in thirty minutes complaining his drink is cold. Of course it’s cold we made it thirty minutes ago! ” Tim rolled his eyes. “By far the worst of the mall-walkers”
“Sorry, the what?” The phrase made Martin think of zombies. Jurgen didn’t look like a zombie, but then, he was very old, and Martin hadn’t heard him talk …
“Old folks who are too frail for the gym so they come to the mall to walk around before it opens.”
“Oh,” said Martin. “For some reason I thought you meant zombies.”
“Well, some of them are,” Tim said. “But zombies don’t really like coffee, so they don’t bother us.”
Martin chuckled with only a little hesitation. Looked like he was gonna have to get used to Tim’s weird sense of humor.
Between Tim showing him how to use the blender (easy) and shakers (slightly less easy) and giving him increasingly complicated drinks to practice making, the morning passed relatively quickly. Every so often a mall-walker would come up and chat with Tim, who seemed to already know all of their names and orders before they said anything.
At least, Martin assumed they were all mall-walkers. They were there before the mall opened, and none of them looked to be under 60 anyway.
First there was Gertrude, a fragile looking woman who was nearly one with her cardigan. She ordered a small black coffee, asked Tim about their manager, Jonathan, and levelled Martin with a stare so intense he wondered if she was trying to take a glimpse at his nervous system. She tutted, said, “I suppose he’ll do,” and walked off without explanation.
Apparently she used to work at the Magnus Cafe. Martin was privately glad he’d missed her tenure.
Then there was Adelard, who had white hair and a handsome face and who ordered a large black coffee and joked with Tim about explosives. He, too, stared at Martin, but this one felt more appraising. He smiled, said “Yeah, I think he’ll do,” and walked off without explanation.
Apparently he was married to Gertrude. Martin thought this raised more questions than it answered.
There was also Mikaele, doppio red-eye, who, according to Tim, used to be a pirate; Maxwell, decaf latte, who, according to Tim, was the leader of a cult; and Mary, chocolate banana smoothie, who, according to Tim, was a serial killer.
“She’s not … actually a serial killer, is she?” Martin asked, watching Mary’s retreating back warily.
Tim shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe? Ask the guys in Hot Topic, they know more about it.”
“Right,” Martin said, remembering the joke about zombies and reminding himself not to take everything Tim said seriously. Probably she was just a sweet old woman with creepy vibes. No way she actually murdered people and kept their skin in a book.
“Anyway,” said Tim, making a show of checking his watch, “it’s 10:45, which means it’s time for me to take a fifteen minute break. Think you can handle yourself out here while I’m gone?”
“Err …”
“Don’t worry, it’s still early,” Tim said, breezing past Martin and untying his apron. “You’ll mostly just get regulars who’ll be totally forgiving that you don’t know their names without ever meeting them.” He paused, and turned to look at Martin, brow furrowed. “Actually, if they do get mad about that just tell them Elias is keeping an eye on things, they should back down.”
Martin thought this was extremely odd advice, but he just nodded and tried to exude an air of confidence. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, you’ll only be gone for fifteen minutes right?”
“Yeah,” Tim mirrored Martin’s nod, his brow unfurrowing. “Who am I kidding, you’ll be fine.” He turned to leave, draping his apron over the kiosk door and shutting it behind him.
Two deep breaths, and Martin stood himself behind the cash registers, fidgeting with a sharpie. They hadn’t exactly been busy so far, and going from the last few hours it was perfectly possible to go fifteen minutes without a customer.
But still. He’d only learned how to use the equipment that morning and could only hope it didn’t show.
“Oh, by the way!” Tim had poked his head back through the door and was looking at Martin with a serious expression that wildly contradicted the light air to his voice. “Dunno if anyone told you, but, er, well. Nobody who works in the mall is human, except us in the cafe. Just thought you should know. Alright, ‘bye!”
Martin’s brain took a second to catch up with what Tim just said, and when it did he felt like he’d short-circuited. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“Wait, what —” Martin dashed to the door to call after Tim, who was already halfway across the lobby. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, this place is so haunted,” Tim called back casually. “Let’s see, security guards are all werewolves, Jane in the oriental shop is made of worms, there’s the, ah, Hot Topic ghosts … erm, oh, all the movie theater ushers are mannequins who escaped from Macy’s … yeah, the only humans who work here are us in the cafe. And honestly I’m not even entirely convinced about Elias.”
Martin gaped. Tim waved cheerily.
“Good luck! I’ll be back soon! Don’t burn down the kiosk, but if you do, remember to blame it on the fire daemon in Victoria’s Secret!”