Chapter Text
Simon
It’s been a long day.
The sun beats down on me as I clean off the benches outside the ice cream shop. I watched some kid practically wipe his ice cream cone on the table while his mother did nothing to stop him. Now, I’m sweaty and frustrated because no matter how hard I scrub, there’s still a film of sticky residue coating the table. It’s just turned six in the evening, so I'm hopeful that business is finally dying down.
A family of around eight people stroll up to the door, and I sigh as I put down my water bucket and walk back inside to take their orders. The man that I assume is the father is staring at the menu overhanging the cash register as if it personally insulted him. His wife is trying-- and failing-- to wrestle two toddlers away from the display case that I just wiped down. I just know there are sticky little fingerprints all over it now.
The first one to walk up to order is a woman in her forties who’s dressed like a goth teenager. Behind her is a boy, maybe my age, who looks like a younger version of her. He’s pulling his black hair into a ponytail while the woman teases him for it. I plaster on my customer service face and cheerfully greet the whole group.
“Hi! Welcome to Watford Cones! Would anyone like to try the cookie dough? It’s our flavour of the month!” The boy around my age lifts an eyebrow at me, judging my service. Maybe I sound a bit overly friendly, but it’s second nature to me by this point. Just part of the job. I bet he’s never had to work a day in his life-- never had to wonder how he’s going to pay rent, or where his next meal is coming from. The simple thought of someone like that judging me gets my blood boiling. The smirk he has only makes it worse.
“Yes, I want cookie dough!” The two toddlers say together and then giggle at each other.
“What do you say to the young man?” Their mum says in a gentle voice, taking one of them by the hand.
“Please?” The tiny girl says, gently tugging her hand free from her mum.
“Pretty please with a cherry on top!” The other one says, and they burst into giggles once more. I smile. Most of the time children are little gremlins, but sometimes they’re just precious. These two seem intent on making my day.
“Of course! Any toppings?” I ask.
"Umm whipped cream?" One asks.
"With rainbow sprinkles!"
"Pretty please!"
"With a cherry on top!" Their words bounce off of each other, as do their giggles.
"So whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a cherry for you both?" I confirm.
They shake their little heads. "No! No cherries."
"Yeah, silly, it's just how you say 'please'."
"Oh, okay." I ring that up and ask the mum, “anything else?”
“Two plain vanilla cones, please. Basilton?” The dad answers instead, turning to the smirking boy. Basilton? What kind of rich kid name is that? The boy-- Basilton-- looks at me. I try to smirk, but I’m sure I just look dumb.
“A chocolate cone, please,” he says flatly. Another child, older than the toddlers, pulls on his shirt to get his attention. He stoops down for her to whisper in his ear, then he adds, “make that two chocolate cones, one with sprinkles.”
“Fiona?” Basilton asks the punk woman in the front. She glares at me as if she's sizing me up for a fight; I feel myself shrink a bit under her gaze.
“A mint chocolate chip cone with nuts, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup, please,” she says, her voice a lot deeper than I expected. She collects her hair behind her ear and I see it’s decorated with piercings.
“Coming right up!” I say with my enthusiastic customer service smile. I ring up the family’s order and place the cash into the till. I’m a little overwhelmed because Trixie called out tonight and Agatha is on her break, so it’s just me working alone, but I think I’ve got this….
I look down at the orders I’ve jotted down on my work pad and get to work;
Two Cookie dough cones with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles,
Two plain Vanilla cones,
One Mint Chocolate Chip cone with nuts, whipped cream and chocolate syrup,
And Two Chocolate cones with rainbow sprinkles.
As always, I start with the kiddo’s cones first; there’s nothing better than seeing the smiles on their little faces and hearing their excited ‘thank you!’’s. Next is the parents; they politely grab their vanilla cones, then take the children to wait outside whilst I finish up the last two orders.
“Ah yes!” The punk woman-- Fiona-- answers loudly as I bring her order to the counter. “This looks well good! Yum!”
I smile to myself and get started on the last order-- chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.
When I hand off the last cone to Basilton, he just holds it and stares. Fiona guffaws. He glares at her, his face slowly turning red. I look between them, trying to figure out what about the ice cream is so funny, and lift my eyebrow in question.
“You got my order wrong,” he explains. I notice the tips of his ears turning the same shade of red as his face. He hands the cone back to me. “I did not ask for the rainbow sprinkles.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll fix that right up for you!” I say through clenched teeth, willing my voice to stay positive. He’s an idiot for not appreciating how fucking delicious sprinkles are, and now I’ll have to throw the whole cone away. They seem like the lot to get really worked up over an incorrect order, and I don’t need another bad mark on my performance review. They also give the impression of wealth, and maybe if I’m lucky and polite, they’ll leave a good tip. I decide to make my voice as saccharine as the ice cream I’m scooping as I speak.
“Our Chocolate is really one of a kind. It’s one of my favourites here! The owners of the shop make all of the ice cream themselves. They add a small shot of espresso-- it’s just enough coffee that it brings out the richness of the chocolate. It is the best I’ve ever had, and I’m not just saying that because I work here.” I joke.
Basilton and Fiona exchange glances as I speak. “But nothing. NOTHING! Beats the Sour Cherry Ripple! I would eat it all the time if I could. Think the iconic raspberry ripple ice cream... but Cherry! It’s pretty incredible. I highly recommend it!” I finish up and hand him his cone. “And here we go! One Chocolate cone, without the rainbow sprinkles.”
“Uh, thank you.” He says taking the cone and looking away.
“No problem! And again, I’m sorry for messing up your order.” I apologize again, rubbing the back of my neck. Please tip, please tip, please tip...
“I apologize for wasting the ice cream.” As if . I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Entitled prat.
“Don’t worry about it. It happens.” I shrug.
He chuckles, looks up at me again. “Have a good night… Snow...?” I look down at my name tag, which today just says ‘Snow’. I lost my other one, and Penny made this one with my middle name-- which I hate -- just to spite me.
“Thanks. Come again!” I wave them goodbye as they saunter out the store. Alright, no tip, I guess. I’m behind on rent, and I suspect the only reason my flatmate Shepard hasn’t been badgering me about it is because I have been taking up so many extra hours at the shop and I’m barely ever home these days. Nearly a £40 order and they couldn’t be arsed to leave a single note in the tip jar. Outside the window I see Fiona push Basilton, his face still red. He pushes her back. I stare at the door for a while, take a deep breath, then get to cleaning and closing up.
It's been a long day.
Baz
Once Fi and I are outside, she takes a bite of her ice cream. I don’t know how she does that; my teeth hurt just watching her. Then she teases me, pushing me lightly as she speaks, “I can’t believe you had that poor bloke remake your whole order.”
“I apologized, at least.” I push her back then shrug, licking my ice cream. It’s not that I hate sprinkles. I mean, they’re fine. I just believe you should always get what you ask for, and what you pay for. Plus, rainbow sprinkles do not fit my aesthetic. They would’ve ruined my Instagram post, which is almost entirely the reason why I even agreed to come in the first place. I already thought up the caption on the way over here-- 'life is like ice cream. enjoy it before it melts.'
Fiona and I join my parents and the children, sitting down at the table directly next to theirs. Father is slowly working on his ice cream, staring out into the sky and seemingly trying to ignore everything else going on around him. The twins have ice cream dripping down their chin and sticky fingers. Mordelia has spilled ice cream down her shirt, and Daphne is trying to help her clean it up with some baby wipes from the baby's pram. The kid seems unfussed, which is great because if either of the twins did that, they’d probably be crying and/or screaming their heads off by now.
It’s warm outside, but not hot enough that I feel the need to eat my ice cream quickly before it melts. The sun hasn’t started to set yet, but it’s getting there. Oh, I almost forgot about the Instagram post. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my trousers and hold my ice cream up slightly, so puffy white clouds are in the background, then I snap the picture. I look it over, and I smile; it’s perfect on the first shot.
“Basilton, will you please put your phone away during family time?” Father says.
I sigh. What difference does it make whether or not I’m on my phone? We’re just eating ice cream. Instead, I do as he asks and say, “yes sir.”
“Maybe you should see about working here for the summer,” Daphne says, and she gestures to the front door. There’s a We’re Hiring! sign taped to the inside.
I scrunch up my nose. “Absolutely not.”
“And why the hell not?” Fiona pipes in. The twins giggle, and Daphne shoots Fiona a look. “Sorry, forgot. Why the heck not?”
“Do you not like ice cream?” Mordelia asks.
“Who doesn’t like ice cream?” I say, then take a few licks of mine to prove my point.
“I think a job could do you some good, Basilton,” Father says. “Teach you some responsibility.”
I scoff. “Could you guys honestly see me working at an ice cream shop?”
“That boy seems to love it,” Fiona points out, then she chuckles. “He sure was talkative.”
“He probably doesn’t. He probably hates it here. He probably started mentally cursing us all out the moment we walked through the door and didn’t stop until we walked out of it.” I look through the windows and watch him for a minute. His head is bent down, his bronze curls in front of his eyes as he counts the money in the till.
“You mean he was cursing out you for having him remake your order.”
“I apologized. ” I bump my hand against the bottom of Fi’s cone as she’s licking her ice cream, and it slips and gets in her nose. I laugh, and the twins giggle too.
“Well, how about you apologize to me for messing up my makeup and go get me some napkins!” She goes to swat at my ice cream, but I lean back so she can’t reach, still laughing.
“Your lipstick was already ruined anyway,” I point out.
She flicks me on the forearm and then, to my surprise, pulls a tenner out of her pocket and slides it across the table to me. “Get me some napkins, and then you can apologize to that poor boy for being a bloody nuisance with a nice tip. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
“Fine.” I grab the note and pocket it. There's no way that kid deserves a £10 tip just for putting ice cream in cones. I’ve already eaten most of my ice cream; all that’s left is the cone and the ice cream inside of it. The portion sizes here are way too large.
“Do you want the rest?” I hold my cone out to Mordelia, who ordered the same as me but with sprinkles. She nods emphatically and then she’s holding two cones, taking turns licking from each one.
I stand up from the table, and as I’m walking to the door, Father calls out, “you should ask him if they’re still hiring.”
“Fine,” I say again, and then I go inside.
Simon
Just as I'm about to finish my shift and turn to go, that prat enters the store again. His eyes set on me.
“Hi! Can I help you with anything else?” I ask, eager to get this over with, but still trying to keep the place's friendly brand.
He scoffs at me and shakes his head. I hear him mumble something under his breath.
“Sorry, I didn't catch that,” I say, frankly a bit confused at his reaction.
“Nothing, I just wanted to grab some napkins,” he says, and while I turn to get them I hear him talk again, “I was just wondering if you had to put on that cheery mask with every customer or just children. Apparently all.”
I want him to order another cone just so that I can spit on it before giving it to him.
“It's part of the job,” I say, my voice involuntarily more defensive.
“Oh, I know. Just don't think it's for… everyone.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” My voice shouldn't be this aggressive when talking to a customer, but this posh brat is really getting on my nerves.
He squints his eyes, almost trying to read me.
“As in, Father wants me to apply for a job here, and I couldn't do that every day,” he says, acting like smiling to customers is the worst thing anyone could possibly do.
“Being nice to people is the least difficult thing about this job.” I immediately regret it as I say, “but you're right, maybe it's not for you.”
“I didn't– That's not what I meant!” He raises his voice and I can almost see his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “It's not being nice when you're paid to do it, and your little 'welcome' speeches make you sound like my 4-year-old twin sisters. For the rest? Please, how difficult can it be?”
“Are you alright, Simon?” says Agatha from beside me at the counter. I didn't even see her approach us. She must've heard us fight.
I don't know why I do it, but the next thing I say is, “yes. This guy was just wondering if we were still hiring.”
He looks at me with disdain and confusion. I smile at him in return.
Agatha tells him that we indeed are and hands him a paper with the application. He just mumbles a small ‘thanks’ and turns back to me. He looks like he's gonna set me on fire.
“If it's so easy…” I say.