Chapter Text
They pulled her off of the cash register a few weeks after the store opened. She delved too deep into the science of coffee. From seeds to plants to cherries to beans to roasting to grinding to brewing. It was no doubt fascinating to hear, but the line would be out the door by the time the manager finally pulled her away from the register and dropped her behind the bar instead.
She starts on assist - the lead barista, Shaela, is an absolute machine. Cosima preps cups, putting in the right amounts of syrups and sauces, and pulls espresso shots, watching for color and texture changes. They fall into a rhythm after a moment. The only sound the hissing of the milk and the grumble of the grinder.
Once the rush ends, they switch, Shaela monitoring Cosima’s prowess at milk steaming and offering pointers. Eventually, Shaela is off for the night and Cosima is left behind the bar on her own. She stumbles a bit that first week, but eventually the workers joke that she and Shaela have taken joint ownership of the espresso machine.
The smell of coffee permeates her clothes, grounds getting in under the dry, cracked skin on her fingers, staining the sides of her pointer fingers a grungy brown as callouses form. Her hands are always wet and her apron is always a mess from spills that she wipes off on the hem. She’s wont to throw the whipped cream canister around to put on a bit of a show for customers - though she does occasionally narrowly avoid dropping it and once (just once) she dented the top of the refrigerator with a misaligned toss.
Being the lead barista is an outlet for the kinetic energy in her hands but requires almost no thought. She chats with customers over the glass, ferrying about coffee trivia and the occasional - okay, quite frequent - deviations to evolution. The managers actual start putting a tip jar at the end of the bar because she’s a whiz at upping the tip intake just by socializing with customers.
And then they hire a new girl.
She’s Cosima’s age, though she feels older. Her hair has the innate ability to look wild even in a ponytail (the manager specifically asks her to put it in a bun for that). She wears heavy eye makeup and Cosima, with her nose piercing, is considerably surprised by the girl’s lack of metal or ink.
"Hi, I’m Cosima," Cos introduces herself on the girl’s first day, offering a hand.
The girl quirks an eyebrow and looks Cosima up and down, not taking her offered hand. “Sarah,” she says.
Cos is struck by her voice. It’s low, soft and sonorous. And - holy hangnails, Batman - she’s British.
It isn’t long before Sarah is whisked away to be subjected to the register scavenger hunt (that Cosima designed on her second week to help one of the other new employees learn where to find the buttons for everything). Cosima can’t help wandering over to the drip coffee urns to watch this girl Sarah.
After a few weeks, the manager brings Sarah over to Cosima’s half of the store (separated from the rest by a large pillar that she can’t see around without having to step right up beside it). He claps his hands on Sarah’s shoulders, though he can’t see the girl’s frown, and says to Cosima, “You’re gonna start training Sarah on bar. She’ll be spending most of her time over the next few weeks with you.”
Cosima gave her boss a polite smile and nod, watching his back as he vanished into the back-of-house. She turns to Sarah. Dark, broody Sarah who’s surprisingly good at conversing with customers and has earned her fair share of tips in the past weeks. Sarah who has eased into the position of “top coffee bean seller.” Sarah who, as soon as there are no customers in line, loses the pretty smile and inviting body language in favor of propping herself up against the counter and staring blankly ahead.
"Okay, so," Cos begins rather awkwardly, "have you done anything on this side yet?"
Sarah drags her eyes over to Cosima’s face. They travel rather slowly. “Not yet.”
Cosima’s lip twitches at Sarah’s clipped phrase but decides to just go with it. She starts explaining the ins and outs of pulling espresso shots, throwing out all the vocabulary, using gestures to indicate the portafilter and the group head and the hopper and the steam wands. She pulls down a clear shot glass from on top of the bar, nerding out over how exactly pulling a perfect shot should look.
"Of course, I need to calibrate my shots," she amends, glancing at Sarah nervously over her shoulder. She can’t imagine going on and on about "the perfect espresso shot" when she hasn’t made sure her shots are pulling at the ideal 27 seconds with the transition in color at 15 second and the distinct appearance of the three layers to the shot. Her mind whirls over all of these, bouncing from fear to absolutely trivial fear and back again as she starts grinding the espresso, reminding Sarah that "you always need to wet the portafilter before you put it in the grinder."
Sarah’s stare is unwavering, but her expression still manages to give the impression of disinterest. And she watches as Cosima, gesturing with her free hand, talks about removing loose grounds from the top of the “hockey puck” of espresso in the filter basket and the angle at which the portafilter must be attached to the group head. When the shots start pulling, Cosima still hasn’t stopped talking.
It starts with espresso shots and the occasional free moment to steam a pitcher of milk. Cosima scrutinizes Sarah’s work with a practiced eye and a large spoon, gauging the consistency of the milk. Though whenever there is more than one customer, Sarah takes a backseat and just hovers to watch. (Cosima can’t even be sure she is watching.)
Cosima tries to impress Sarah with her theatrics and her attempts at cappuccino art (she can almost, almost make a heart). But the Brit seems completely unaffected by everything. And yet Cosima can’t quite bring herself to ask the pointed questions she’d need to. Sarah isn’t exactly forthcoming.
Cosima talks about her studies and her classes and campus life. Sarah says that things are “fine.” Cosima initiates small talk, and Sarah gives evasive, monosyllabic non-answers, complete with shrugs that come so naturally they must be just about her only form of expression. And yet she interacts so well with customers.
Sarah steps up during a particularly wild rush, prepping cups without so much as glancing at the drinks guide. And yet, based on the number of pumps she hears for each cup, Cosima knows that every single one is right. Sarah even starts pulling the shots without so much as having to be asked. Normally, Cosima would be giving instructions, even to her more experienced co-workers, but Sarah just knows.
Syrups, sauces, shots, swirls. Cups prepped and passed along to Cosima for assembly. The two of them work like two halves of a whole connected by the bar in front of them. And still Sarah says nothing. She doesn’t ask questions, only occasionally pointing out, “This is for the mocha” or “Here’s the hot chocolate set-up.” And they’re the longest sentences Sarah’s ever said to Cosima.
"Can you make that capp for me?" Cosima asks, buried under a mountain of four drinks each with a different type of milk. (Can’t people all just take low-fat or soy? Seriously, breve lattes are not only terrible for you, but disgusting.)
Sarah glances up at the queue screen and gives her characteristic shrug, reaching around Cosima - her arm brushing Cosima’s back - to snatch up a pitcher. Within a moment, Sarah’s steam wand spurts to life, and Cosima catches the familiar ticking hiss of steaming milk. Sarah’s shots are pulling just a few inches away. Her dark eyes flit back and forth between the pitcher and the espresso, concentration undeniable.
Cosima has to remind herself that she doesn’t have the luxury of staring and starts assembling drinks. It’s not long before sitting in front of her is a perfect cappuccino heart, ready to be sent out to a customer. She glances over at Sarah in shock, but the Brit is already pulling espresso for the next drink.