Chapter Text
Martin's taking out the trash when Tim sticks his head out the back door with an apologetic look that Martin recognizes. He bites back a sigh and raises a finger to Tim – one minute – and hefts the bag over the edge of the skip. It thumps heavily on the metal bottom, and he reaches up to close the lid, lets it shut with a satisfying sound, then comes back to the door.
"Let me at least wash my hands," Martin says, and Tim nods. He steps out of the back room and into the shop proper.
Sasha's handling the few customers they've got with ease – the lunch rush hasn't quite hit – and Martin takes his time scrubbing his hands thoroughly, using the nail brush and soaping around his wrists, and takes longer to dry them than he might otherwise do. Tim waits patiently, unnecessarily wiping down the espresso machine and the counter around the knock box. Finally though, Martin tosses out his kitchen towel and turns to face him, leaning one hip against the counter.
"So," Tim begins, "you know how I said that Danny wasn't getting in until Thursday?"
Martin nods, already knowing where this is going. He'd known where this was going as soon as Tim had poked out into the alley.
"He got in early – he's already at my flat, and waiting on the steps. I have no idea how he moved up his ticket," Tim adds hastily. "I really didn't expect him this early, but I can't just leave him there, and he's got all of his stuff, and –"
"I've got it," Martin says, not even really having to feign his smile. "I don't mind staying through your shift."
"I'd ask Sasha, but I know she's got a thing with her thesis advisor tonight –"
"It's not a 'thing'," Sasha says indignantly while plating a muffin and passing it over to a customer. "Gertrude's been planning this review for weeks, Tim, you know that."
"I know that," Tim agrees. "You're right, and I apologize."
"Thank you," Sasha says.
"I know you opened today," Tim says, back to Martin. "And that you were about to leave. And I'll switch with you again tomorrow, so you don't have to do a clopen, I just want to get back to Danny. It's been almost six months." He looks sheepish, and even if Martin hadn't already agreed, he'd do so now. Tim's love for Danny is so open and eager that Martin can't possibly begrudge him the extra time with his brother. Plus, it's bloody cold out, and Danny has about as much sense as Tim does when it comes to dressing for the weather.
"I do accept your offer to take my open tomorrow, but I need you to tell Danny that I say hi, and buy him a pint for me."
"Like he wasn't already going to take Danny out," Sasha interjects. Martin gently hip checks her away from the register when the next customer walks up, and she lets him ring the woman up, then takes the register again as he steps aside to start prepping the sandwich she'd ordered.
"Thank you so much, Marto," Tim says, already slipping his apron off and stepping towards the back room to grab his backpack. "I really appreciate it, and I know Danny will too."
"You're too nice to him," Sasha says. "The trick with Tim is to treat him with a healthy dose of disdain, so he knows his place." Martin giggles, as she's intended, and delivers the sandwich to one of the tables near the front window.
The two of them work together well – even if he doesn't have the same easy friendship with her as Tim does, she's kind beneath the sassing, and he's never been displeased to have her as a manager. The staff at Coffee Pun – the three of them, plus Melanie, Basira, and Gerry – all get along well enough to work shifts together, even grab drinks some evenings, but Sasha is just especially patient with him, even when he's a complete idiot.
It's nice.
The lunch rush comes and goes and they handle it with something resembling ease, though the pastry case is down to a scattered handful of items by the time they get the line down to zero. Sasha restocks all of the fridges and paper goods and Martin cleans the bathroom around three. By the time Sasha clocks out at four and lets her braids down, Martin is set to finish out the day on his own.
"Let me know if you need anything," she says, applying lipstick in the reflective side of the espresso machine. "Like, not anything, because this review is a big deal, but an emergency or something."
"I will let you know if there is an emergency," Martin promises, and she kisses him on the cheek to blot her lipstick and hurries out the front door before he scrubs it off with a dry kitchen towel.
Afternoons are fairly steady at the coffee shop – they're on the same block as a Café Nero, so no one looking for quick caffeine fix chooses them, but there's a pleasant stream of regulars who come to pick at the remains of the pastry case on the way home, or tour guides getting a tea before walking Americans up and down the waterfront. Martin is kept busy making little foam hearts on top of lattes and timing tea steeping and grilling cold sandwiches. It's almost six when the door opens again and an android walks in.
It's not unusual for Coffee Pun to get embodied AI customers. Some are properly androids, humanoid in shape, and enjoy taking part in human rituals like visiting cafes. Others of all chassis types come by to pick up food orders for coworkers. Some of Gerry's friends come by to charge while he works, and others still meet human friends to chat and socialize while they drink coffee. But this one looks particularly unsure if he even wants to be there. He steps towards the counter haltingly, and when he's close enough, Martin can hear his fans whirring. He keeps coming forward until he's in front of the register, and then he looks up at Martin.
"What can I get for you?" Martin asks automatically.
"Do you have an available charging pod I can rent?" the android asks. His head is tilted a few degrees to one side, and his hands are hovering in front of his waist, trembling a bit.
"Er, sorry?" Martin blinks. "This is a coffee shop."
The android looks distressed. "I performed a search, and reviews of this establishment indicated that you were a location with Solus ports. The nearest publicly accessible one, as well. Is this incorrect?"
"No, uh," Martin begins. "We do have Solus ports, just –"
"Then may I rent one?" the android asks again. "Or is it that you have longer term leases, and none are available at this time?"
Finally, Martin understands what's going on. "Oh! Oh, no, we don't have pods, we just have ports by a few of the tables. The green ones," he adds, gesturing to the line of booths and smaller tables lined up against the side wall. Most are unoccupied.
"May I – rent one?" The AI looks somewhere between baffled and frustrated, and Martin feels for him.
"They aren't for rent," he says, and quickly continues, to avoid further misunderstanding. "They're just available to use. If a table is open, you can use it. If one isn't, but they're just being used by human customers, I'll ask someone to switch tables for you. But that's not a problem right now. As you can – ha, as you can see on your own, yeah."
The fan whirring seems to get a bit louder, but after another long moment, the android looks up at the menu behind Martin's head and scans it rapidly. "That is unexpected, but appreciated," he says stiffly, and looks down from the menu to meet Martin's gaze. "May I purchase a jasmine tea?"
"You don't have to do that," Martin assures him. "We aren't so busy that I think we'll need the table, and it's not like a bit of power is going to send us out of business. Oh, we do close at six-thirty, though. So there's only half an hour left to use it. Sorry," he adds.
"Half an hour is acceptable. And I – I do desire the jasmine tea. Please."
"Well, that's one pound seventy, then," Martin says. "Do you want that in a to go cup, or –"
"A mug."
"You've got it." There's still no build-up of customers, so Martin doesn't rush while he makes the tea, and he waves a dismissive hand when the android reaches out to take it. "Let me just bring it to your table," he says, kindly not mentioning the way the android's hands are still shaking. He leads the way to a small two-seater and sets the mug down with a click, then steps back as the android carefully lowers himself into the chair. The port is set into the wall, just above table height, and it doesn't take a moment for the android to pull a cable out from the back of his neck and attach it with the distinctive click-twist that it takes to connect fully to a Solus port. He beeps quietly, a pattern Martin has never heard before, and the sound of the fan whirring cuts out abruptly. His eyes light up green for a moment, and then dim back to their previous warm brown.
"Right," Martin says, and then he says "right," again. "Er. Enjoy your tea?"
"Yes." There's a pause, and then the android stiffly says, "thank you."
The door opens and someone walks in, so with one more look behind him, Martin hurries back behind the register. He darts a few glances at the occupied table between customers and end-of-day tidying, but by the time the place empties out, the table is empty, besides the full mug of tea.
Martin texts Tim later that night to confirm that Tim will take his open the next day – he gets back a selfie of Tim and Danny with a number of empty pint glasses in front of them, and 'of course i am buddy i am opening tomorrow for u!!!!' and a number of kissy face emojis. Martin chuckles, not envying Tim at five am the next day, and turns in early. He shows up at Coffee Pun just before his shift starts at noon, and finds Tim the expected hungover wreck and Basira ribbing him mercilessly.
"This is your own fault," Martin says, shoving his backpack onto a shelf in the manager's office and tying his apron on.
"I can't even argue with you," Tim says mournfully.
There's a half hour overlap between their shifts, and Tim spends the whole time talking about Danny's adventures over the past months, and how he's been, and where he's going next, and their plans while he's in town.
"This has been all morning," Basira confides in Martin, and the two of them laugh together while Tim doesn't even pretend to pout.
The shop is jam packed, even for a lunch rush, but Basira and Martin shoo Tim out the door at precisely the end of his shift. They're kept busy in a well-practiced dance, trading off register, drinks, sandwiches, pastries, writing names on cups and greeting regulars with a smile or a wink. There are a handful of folks who come in with android coworkers or friends and sit at the green tables – Martin spares an extra second to look at them, thinking of the quiet AI from the previous night – but none of them buy drinks for themselves.
There's a lull in the energy after lunch, and Martin takes the opportunity to run to the toilet, then hurries to empty both of the trash cans from the main floor, and the one behind the counter. He's coming back from the dumpster when he hears Basira raise her voice, and he hurries out of the back room.
"Good timing, Martin," Basira says coldly, arms crossed. "These gentlemen weren't willing to buy their coffee from a 'foreigner'." There's a small group of young men crowded in front of the counter facing her, and the one closest to her laughs shortly and locks eyes with Martin.
"I'm glad I'm here, then," he says. "You didn't explain to them that you're from Sussex?"
"Wouldn't have changed anything," she replies. "Would you mind helping them?"
"I'd be happy to help them," Martin says mildly.
"Thank you," says one of the men, smirking like he's won. Two of his friends grin, and one of them pulls his hood around his face like a shitty version of Basira's headscarf, prompting more laughter.
Martin steps away from the Basira and walks calmly around the end of the counter. The men are still laughing and jostling each other as he approaches, but the laughter dies out as he steps closer.
The thing about Martin is, well –
He tends to walk around with his shoulders rounded and his voice soft. He's polite to the point of absurdity, and more than one person in his life has referred to him as a doormat. He enjoys being pleasant, doesn't want anyone to fear him.
But Martin is a very big man. He's experienced no shortage of bullying due to the roundness of his stomach, the creased handfuls of fat at his sides, but they don't negate the bulk of his shoulders and his arms, or the power under his soft thighs.
Martin stands up straight. He knows how: he'd been convinced to play rugby in secondary school, and had worked as a builder once or twice when he was bouncing from job to job. He looks down his nose at the group of men, and even the tallest of them has to look up to meet his gaze.
"Here's how I'm going to help you," Martin explains politely. "I'm going to ask you to leave, nicely, without taking you out myself. That's as helpful as you deserve right now."
"Hey now," says one of them. "We're just here for some coffees; you have to serve us."
"We don't," Martin says, "and we won't." It's the same tone he uses when he gets Tim to leave the bar, a bit drunker than he means to get. It's how he speaks when his downstairs neighbor's ex-wife comes around and won't leave Vera alone. He doesn't bring it out often, but Martin does have a bit of steel under everything.
"Come on, Devon," one of them mutters. "It's not fun anymore."
"Oh, fuck off," presumably Devon says, but he doesn't step towards Martin or the register. One of his friends grabs his shoulder and he allows himself to be steered out the door. Martin hears a spat "fat fuck" once they're past the doorway, and he presses his lips together in grim amusement.
"Thanks for that," Basira says, and one of the few seated customers gives him a relieved smile.
It's not that Basira can't defend herself; quite the contrary, in fact. Between the two of them, Martin is certainly less adept at physical altercations, and would do far worse at actually dealing with an unruly customer or few. But they all prefer to avoid fights in the shop, so when Martin's around, they just let him end trouble by looming.
"You're welcome, I guess," Martin says, rounding the end of the counter again and walking to the sink. He turns the water on harder than he needs to, scrubs his hands with painful force. "You shouldn't need it, though."
"You're right," Basira says, shrugging. "But we’re always going to get racist assholes, at least now and again."
Martin makes a grumbling sound, but doesn't protest further, doesn't want his anger to become her problem. He just dries his hands vehemently, then ushers Basira to take her break early and takes over the register. If she takes a little longer than usual, neither of them mentions it upon her return.
She clocks out a little after four, gives Martin a chance for one last visit to the toilet before she leaves, and turns left once she's out the door, heading for Sloane Square. It's a busy evening after that, unusual for a Wednesday, but the weather is nice and the door is propped open, which always helps. He doesn't get a chance for a sit down until after five, and he sips at his room temp tea as quickly as possible as he has to jump up every few minutes to serve someone else.
It's almost six again when the same AI from yesterday walks in, his stiff gait a bit awkward as he maneuvers around an exiting customer. Martin leaps to his feet as quickly as possible and drops his near-empty mug in the dish sink. "Hi!" he says enthusiastically. He gets a startled look in return.
"Hello," the android says slowly. "May I, er." He looks back up at the menu, and Martin can see his LED eyes tracking back and forth in a rapid flicker. He drops his chin and looks at Martin again. "May I purchase a white tea? In a mug."
"Sure," says Martin. "That's one pound seventy." The android reaches forward and waves his wrist over the keypad, and the beep confirms his payment. His hands aren't visibly shaking today, so Martin feels fewer qualms sliding the full mug over the counter. Another customer is right in line behind him, and by the time Martin looks back at him, he's plugged into the port at a small table by the window, and he has his fingers interlaced around the mug.
Staring is rude, Martin reminds himself every few minutes, as he catches himself looking at the AI between customers. It's just hard, though – he's unexpectedly striking. Martin doesn't recognize the model; his features are delicate, except for the strong nose, and his frame is thin, bordering on scrawny. His skin color isn't too far from Basira's, but there's a metallic grey sheen to his dermal polymer, and his eyes flash a startling LED green every so often, just for a second. His hair is also interesting – it's not the fine texture that comes from the store-bought solution that Gerry uses whenever he wants to grow his out, but it still holds a slight curl all the way to the tips, down around his shoulder blades.
Usually humanoid models are a little closer to, well, human-looking. And it's not that this one looks so far from it. He has all of the expected features – fingers, elbows, mouth, etc. – but the eyes and the stilted movements place him in a strange category that leads Martin to… wonder a bit.
Like the previous night, the android is gone by the time Martin comes around the counter to lock the front door, and he's left his full mug behind.
“Come on Tim,” Martin says, flopping down over his bed and toeing his shoes off. They thump to the floor. “I just got in and I've got too much to do. You can't expect me to go out drinking with you every Friday, can you?”
“Of course I can,” Tim says, his grin audible through the phone. “It's Friday – we get drinks. That's how things work.”
“Sometimes one of us is closing on a Friday,” Martin says, trying to sound more convincing than he feels. “We don't go out on Fridays when one of us is closing.”
“Well, Gerry and Basira are closing tonight,” Tim says reasonably. “So neither of us is, so we can go out. Plus, Danny's out with some girls, and I could use a shoulder to cry on.”
Martin sighs aggressively. He's exhausted, he's sweaty, his clothes are dirty, he needs to do a load of laundry, and he’s really hoping to spend the day at the library tomorrow.
“Besides,” Tim sings, his voice indicating that the next bit is meant to sweeten the pot. “I convinced Melanie to come out with us also.”
Martin pulls his phone away from his ear to frown at it, then holds it back to his face. “Tim,” he says. “Melanie hates me.”
“She doesn't hate you,” Tim says unconvincingly.
“She hates me,” Martin says.
“Well then,” Tim says, audibly amused. “You have to come out drinking so you can get to know each other better.” His voice has an audible quality of triumph to it. “She wouldn't hate you if she knew you better.”
“I'm not so convinced of that,” Martin says, “but I don't have a way to argue without being self-deprecating, and you told me that's not allowed anymore.”
“Damn straight,” Tim says.
“I'm not,” Martin reminds him. Tim snorts.
“Anyway,” Tim says, moving on, “we’ll be at the Wedge and Fig around nine. You’ll be there?”
Martin pulls his phone down again to flick open his banking app, and comes up more positive than he was expecting. “I guess I can get a cheese toastie,” Martin says, begrudgingly interested despite himself.
“That's more like it,” Tim says. “And I’ll get your first pint. I'll see you there.” He hangs up before Martin could argue further, as if he were planning to.
“Fine,” Martin says to the silence on the other end of the line, annoyed, but pleased despite himself that Tim is trying so hard to spend time with him.
It’d been a lonely few – several – years. Ever since Martin's mum had demanded that he help her move to an assisted living facility, Martin had been genuinely all alone. Sure, it's not like living with his mum was all that social to begin with, but she was better than no one, and it was nice to have something to do and someone to talk to... even if she did tell him to shut up more often than she listened to him. He grimaced at the memory.
There was a terrible three-year stretch between dropping out of school and his mother moving out when she was the only one he saw outside of work, ever. So it had certainly hurt when she moved out, and he’d felt more lonely than ever. At least it had given him the opportunity to meet people. Well, to try and meet people. To make friends, he supposes. It had been another few years of stocking grocery store shelves, editing papers for university students, and cleaning offices at night, before he'd run into Gerry at a support group for children of narcissistic parents. Their friendship hadn't blossomed quickly, but eventually, the fact that Gerry created visual art and Martin wrote poetry gave them enough in common that they'd started to talk outside of support group hours. It took Martin a little bit longer to feel comfortable making close friends with an AI, but after some generous work from Gerry helping him get over himself, Martin was genuinely pleased to call Gerry a friend. And then, of course, Martin had found himself complaining about money being tight, and being ignored at all of his jobs, and Gerry had mentioned that there was an opening for a barista at Coffee Pun. Martin had taken another few months to really feel sure about the offer, but eventually, he applied to work there.
(“Just lie and say you’ve done it before,” Gerry said airily, waving one hand carelessly. “It’s not hard.”
“I was already planning to,” Martin admitted, to Gerry’s uproarious laughter.)
And, he now supposes, it’s all worked out incredibly well. Working there plus editing papers makes him just enough to afford rent and groceries, and if he walks to work more often than he doesn’t, then his budget usually balances at the end of the month, and even leaves him a bit extra to hang out with Tim on Fridays.
He doesn’t think Tim knows that it takes several days of walking to pay off one pint, and he has no plans to tell him. But it’s November, so students are frantically trying to raise their term grades, leaving Martin with a lot less free time, and a bit extra cash.
Speaking of free time… Martin glances at his watch and rolls his eyes. He’s got just enough time to shower and change before he has to leave to meet Tim, meaning he’ll have to stay up quite late to get out the papers he’d promised by tomorrow. Damn.
He groans, but rolls over and folds himself off the bed, pulling his shirt off and tossing it in the direction of the hamper. May as well have a good time, if he’s going out anyway.
There's a busy Wednesday when Sasha – bless everything about her – stays late "just until this rush is over," and ends up staying almost until Martin closes, helping him with the near-constant flow of customers. He's handling the register while she makes drinks. It's still a bit before six when the android comes in to order his tea for the third time now. It takes a minute for Martin to work through the line, and then he's at the front.
"Hi!" Martin says, more brightly than he means to. The android gives him a brief, extremely skeptical look before tilting his face up and reading over the menu.
"I would like to order an earl grey tea in a mug. Please."
"Sure thing," Martin says, tapping the order in. "Name?"
There's a long silence, and Martin looks up from the POS to find that the android has frozen in front of him. His eyes are a faint green and there's a humming sound coming from his chest. It's long enough that Martin is about to say something, and the person in line behind the android looks awkwardly like he wants to step up around him, when the android opens his mouth and says, "Jonathan," in a voice that isn't his own. It's a higher voice, even more posh than the one he has programmed into his voice box, and it sounds almost like a recording of someone else speaking.
"Jonathan?" Martin says gently. The android shudders back to life and looks extremely uncomfortable.
"Jon," he says firmly. "It's – it's Jon."
"Jon," Martin agrees. "Earl grey, large mug." He taps it into the system and the android – Jon – scans his wrist wordlessly. "You can step aside, and Sasha will call out your name once it's ready," he explains.
Then Jon steps aside to stand in front of Sasha and the drinks station, and Martin takes an order for six lattes for the next customer in line. Jon receives his drink and charges until Martin starts wiping down the pastry case, and then he vanishes.
It becomes a bit routine for Martin. The afternoon rush ends, Jon comes in and sits at an empty table along the side wall. He sits with his hands wrapped around the hot mug for half an hour or so, and then slips out when Martin's back is turned. He always plugs into the Solus port as quickly as possible and, as far as Martin can tell, lingers until the last possible moment before detaching.
Martin tries a few times to tell him that he's welcome to just sit and charge, and that he doesn't have to buy something he can't even drink, but Jon declines. "I appreciate the warm tactile stimulation," the android says. "And pleasant olfactory experience. In addition, it is appropriate to purchase something when I am receiving a service for free, where I had previously expected to pay. And would, in another location," he adds.
Martin has nothing to say to that.
He tries a different kind of tea the first half dozen or so times that he comes in, until Martin realizes that Jon isn't picking teas based on any kind of existing preference.
"Can I, uh. Can I make a suggestion?" he asks one afternoon, while Jon is scanning the menu over the counter. It doesn't seem necessary, given that most models have an eidetic memory, but he never walks in and immediately orders, either.
Jon blinks at him, the incredibly faint click of his eyelids barely audible in the empty shop. But he doesn't say "no" either, so Martin forges on.
"It seems like you're, er, trying different things, and," he shrugs, a bit bashful. "I wondered if you might like oolong?"
"I had intended to order oolong at some future date," Jon informs him, drawing himself up a bit stuffily. It looks like he's trying to rebuke Martin, but Martin finds himself stifling a laugh instead.
"Well, what do you want today, then?"
Jon blinks again – the pause between his blinks is long enough that it's quite noticeable when he does it – and then frowns. "Oolong will be acceptable," he says stiffly, and scans his wrist over the payment processor the moment the total comes up, then escapes to his table without saying another word. But he does say "thank you," when Martin brings him the perfectly steeped cup, and wraps his long fingers around the mug. He lingers a bit longer that day, and Martin actually catches him walking out the door at precisely six thirty-one.
This continues through early autumn and into days that are properly nippy, and Coffee Pun gets a little more crowded. People are always more inclined to linger, more likely to get hot drinks when they want to escape from the cold weather, and Martin gets to practice his latte art under Tim's gently mocking tutelage.
"That's definitely a dick," Tim informs him, and Martin shoots him a dirty look
"It's a flower with a stem," he says, as dignified as he can manage, but even he has to admit that he's made a fairly rudimentary cock, straight off the wall of a men's toilet. He frowns and grabs a long spoon, and uses it to narrow out the stem, taking its rating from a solid 15 down to a U.
Jon works his way through the entire tea menu, and starts to come back to some of the smokier greens and blacks. Martin tries adding sugar and milk a couple of times, but Jon's face never looks quite as relaxed as it does when it's just pure tea. He starts fiddling with brew times instead, looking for exactly the right cuppa for someone who isn't even going to drink it.
Jon walks in one freezing afternoon and orders a Moroccan mint tea, then turns to the far wall. He takes a half step forward, but stops when realizes that there aren't any open green tables. There are a few free double-seaters in the center, and the long table by the window has several open chairs between the students buried behind textbooks, but all of the spots with a Solus port are occupied. He turns around to look around the rest of the room, instinctively looking for a solution or another Solus port, but all of the remaining outlets in the room are the type to power a laptop, not a fully autonomous artificially intelligent being with proprietary charging technology.
Martin sees the problem as he's filling up Jon's mug with hot water, and hurries from behind the counter with two fingers securely hooked through the handle.
"I – I apologize," Jon says when Martin draws close to him. "I must depart without my beverage." He takes a step towards the door, but moves slowly, eyes following Martin as he moves.
"No you don't," Martin says easily, passing Jon and walking over to one of the tables by the wall. "Hey Daisy."
"Hey Blackwood," Daisy says. She's on her fourth coffee of the evening, and there are three deconstructed newspapers covering the table.
"What are you doing?" Jon says from behind him, sounding both startled and offended by Martin's actions. "I do not require you to –"
"Hush," Martin says kindly, tossed over his shoulder. "Could you take one of the other tables?" he asks, turning back to Daisy. "You're taking up prime real estate here."
"I'm a paying customer," Daisy says, dry as bone, but she's already gathering up her newspapers.
"She's a paying customer," Jon protests, strangled.
"She's nothing of the sort," Martin assures him, placing Jon's tea on the edge of the table and helping her stack the papers. "She hasn't paid for a drink in years."
"I'm going to take this to your manager," Daisy says, standing up with an exaggerated stretch that nonetheless makes an alarming cracking sound. She passes Jon as she's moving to one of the unoccupied tables and shoots him a look that Martin doesn't catch, but makes Jon twitch.
"Don't mind her," Martin says to Jon as the android hesitantly walks over to the table that Martin's cleared for him. "This table is designed for embodied AI, and she can sit somewhere else. You can't."
"I can seat myself elsewhere, technically speaking," Jon says, sitting warily.
"Oh, don't be pedantic," Martin replies, gathering up the bits of trash that Daisy left behind.
"I'm not sure I'm capable of that," the android reminds Martin, pulling out his charging cord and pointedly waggling the dongle. Martin laughs.
"Fine, fine, very funny. Either way, you're always welcome to charge here. And, I mean –" he pauses, unsure if he's going a bit too far for someone he doesn't actually know, but soldiers on. "It looks like you – you really need a charge sometimes when you come in. And I don't know what you get up to when you aren't here, and I'm not asking! But, er — you'd be welcome to stay a bit longer on nights when I close. I'd be the only one here."
Jon doesn't respond for the length of time it takes to click-twist plug into the port, beep his typical charging pattern (and when did Martin memorize his charging pattern?), and wrap his long fingers around the mug. Then he looks up at Martin, still hovering awkwardly by, and says, "thank you." If it's stiffer than his previous statement, Martin is sure he's imagining it.
"Sure, yeah, of course!" Martin says, and then he hears the door open. "Just, uh – let me know if you need anything else!"
"I will do so," Jon responds, and then Martin rushes back behind the counter to catch the next customer.
He catches himself shooting looks at Jon over the next half hour, wondering… well, wondering more about him. Most embodied AIs have a home or a charging dock that they return to at least a few times a week, to shut down and run updates, and to fully charge. A full charge on even the oldest of batteries should get someone through a day or two of optimal functioning before they start to exhibit signs of low power, but every time Jon comes in, he looks like he's running on power saver mode.
Gerry gets like that sometimes, Martin reminds himself. When they're too focused on their art and forget to charge, they sometimes come into work flashing low battery, or even stuttering and dragging. Once, Sasha had forced them off shift and over to charge for the rest of the day, and she'd called Martin in to cover for them. He remembers how unsettling it was to see his normally-animated coworker slurring and trembling, but also that it only took two or three hours until they were animated again, and less than six to get them back to their regular self.
That's not that much, Martin thinks, pulling a shot for an Americano. Surely, Jon must get a full charge regularly – maybe it's just that his job takes a lot of power, and he needs an extra boost to get home at the end of the day. Yeah, that's probably what's going on. London is extremely accessible to embodied AI, and to androids especially. Most apartment buildings have units with Solus ports for embodied AI who want to live in a more typical domicile, and there are charging pods in most neighborhoods. It isn't that difficult to charge up and Jon seems like an intelligent being, from what Martin can tell.
Martin feels reassured from his own line of thinking, and the next time he looks over at the small table Jon's sat at, he's got a warmer smile than his usual customer service one.
Though it's still a bit before six-thirty, Jon is already gone.
That's the last time he comes in for almost a month.
The next time Martin sees Jon comes in, it's a Saturday, and Martin and Gerry are both on shift. There's enough going on in Chelsea on Saturdays that the second shift runs until six, and Martin's grateful for it. Couples out on dates, tourists wandering around, bartenders looking for a caffeine hit before a busy night… It's a lot.
Martin's making drinks and hot food while Gerry handles the register and pastries, and they have a smooth flow between them that lasts through the afternoon. There's a moment for each of them to take a quick break, but not much besides, and Martin only looks up from the drinks station to call out names and hand over beverages. So it's a bit of a surprise when he completes the next order – just a mug of Irish breakfast – and looks up to automatically call out "Jon!" and meets android-Jon's eyes.
"Oh!" Martin says, startled. He'd never seen Jon on a weekend, and frankly, he'd been a bit worried that he wasn't going to see the android again.
There's a long moment of eye contact where Martin makes no move to slide the mug across the counter, and Jon frowns. "My tea?"
"Oh," Martin says again. "I – I'm sorry, yeah." He slides the drink forward but doesn't take his hand back quite yet, just blurts out, "you look awful," then colors.
"Thank you," Jon says waspishly, and Martin winces and pulls his hand back.
"Sorry, sorry," Martin says. "I just mean – do you. Can I – can I help you? With your drink, I mean."
The android pauses to process. The brown of his eyes is so faded that they're almost grey, and there's a tremor that runs through his hands and all the way up to his torso. Their low battery light blinks from his collarbone, bright enough to just see reflected on the skin above his collar. "If you must," Jon says eventually, and Martin hastens to come around the counter and lead him to a green table against the far wall. It's the only open one, and there's debris from the last customer, but Martin sets the mug down and clears the trash and plates, then steps back for Jon to take a seat. He sits, and Martin hovers for a moment, darting a nervous glance at the line of folks waiting to order, and those waiting for their drinks.
"Look, I don't know if you – I don't know what you need. But we're open until half past eight tonight," he says hurriedly. "You can stay here as long as you need, okay?"
Jon is already drawing the cable from the back of his neck, but spares a moment to look up at Martin and nod.
And then there really is no more time to talk, because Gerry shouts "Martin!" at him, and he has to dash back to the drinks station and work at double speed for the next ten minutes to catch up.
There's no lull until almost four, and Gerry sidles up next to Martin while he's finishing up the last order in the current queue.
"So," Gerry says, tucking a permanent marker in their apron pocket. "Who's he?" They jerk a thumb at Jon. He's been charging for the last hour and change, but looks only marginally less awful.
"He came in a bunch over the fall," Martin says, sliding the wand into a small pitcher of milk. "Just to charge and like, hold a mug of tea?"
"That's not weird," Gerry reminds him. "I do that all the time."
"No, you do that with the dregs of coffee at the bottom of the carafe. And that is weird of you."
"Point," Gerry allows. They step back to the register to sell a muffin to someone who's just walked in, then moves back to Martin. "So what's his deal?"
"I really don't know," Martin says. "Literally, all I know is that he came in a few times a week, got some tea, charged for half an hour, then left. He usually looked pretty low, but he didn't stay long enough to charge up, because he came in so close to closing. Uh, and his name is Jon."
"Got that part."
"Right, yeah." Martin flushes a bit.
"Hm." Gerry makes a considering face. They've worked a lot on visibly emoting in the years since Martin's met them, and he genuinely appreciates their commitment to showing when they're thinking about something. "Honestly," they say eventually, "that is a bit weird. It's weird for someone to be low power more than once a week, if he's able to charge at home."
"Oh," Martin says. "I guess I thought maybe he had a really exhausting job?"
"That's not quite how it works," Gerry explains. "Like, kind of. But if he's regularly rebooting and charging to full, then he shouldn't run down so often. Plus, being fully charged means you optimize power more efficiently."
"So like, being low power makes you use up power fast?"
"Exactly."
"Is it possible that he… doesn't have a home?" Martin tries.
"Sure" Gerry says, letting Martin take and make the orders for the next few customers as they chat. "There are shelters for a reason."
"I never thought about the fact that there could be shelters for androids," Martin says, startled.
"They exist for all kinds of embodied AI," Gerry tells him. "It's an AI right, to have access to power, and municipalities are obligated to provide resources to sustain functioning." They sound like they're quoting something, and Martin, not for the first time, reminds himself to learn more about the beings that he shares a society with.
"Is there a reason why he might not go to a shelter?" Martin asks, shooting a glance at the subject of their conversation. Jon is still sitting at the small table where Martin escorted him almost an hour ago. He's ramrod straight, with his knees and elbows at right angles, and his fingers are wrapped around the mug in exactly the same way he'd placed them upon sitting down. It doesn't look like it could possibly be comfortable to Martin, but what does he know about how comfort works to an android?
"Sure," Gerry says. "Think of all the reasons that a human might not go to a shelter. Pride, or fear of being found out, or a desire for privacy… They're not awful, but they're not fun." Martin suddenly remembers early conversations with Gerry, back in their support group, and how they'd run off from their original owner and had nowhere safe to stay where she wouldn't find them.
Suddenly Martin's confidence that Jon is probably just fine begins to melt away.
"What can we do to help? I mean – is there anything?"
Gerry shrugs. "Be open when we're scheduled to be open, and keep having Solus ports available."
"That's it?"
"We can't go barging into some customer's life, just because we think he might need help," Gerry says reasonably. "From what you've said, he might be in some kind of trouble, but that's really not our business."
There's a gap in the conversation as they serve the next crowd of customers, and Martin is kept busy for another quarter hour making drinks and heating up sandwiches. Then he's able to sidle back up to Gerry with his next question.
"Okay, so – the 'not getting involved' thing. Is that an AI etiquette thing, or would you suggest the same thing if a human customer seemed to be in some kind of trouble, too?"
Gerry grimaces. "Asking the tough questions, hunh?" Their fans whir more loudly for a bit and they fiddle with the long strands of hair that have escaped their braid. Martin waits patiently and works on cleaning down the mess in the dish sink. Finally Gerry's fans quiet a bit, and they look back at Martin. "The latter, I think," they say. "I don't like getting involved in other peoples' trouble. I have enough of my own already."
Martin nods. He understands that impulse – he's been exhausted from helping others in the past, especially when he'd been overwhelmed with his own issues, but he still never quite manages to mind his own business if there's something he can do to help. "Thank you," he says. "Really. This is helpful." He tugs his apron straight, then meets eyes with Gerry again. "Assuming I'm going to try and help him," he says, accompanied by Gerry's snort, "is there anything I should know?"
Gerry shrugs. "AIs are as diverse as humans are," they say. "And so are their needs. If he needs help and if he's willing to take it from you, just ask him what he needs."
"Reasonable as ever," Martin teases, and they smile warmly at each other. Gerry is the co-worker he's known the longest, thanks to their support group, and while they may not be the closest of friends, they do have a shared vocabulary to have these tough conversations.
Gerry helps a few more customers, then clocks out fifteen minutes later and claps Martin on the shoulder on their way out.
It's still a busy evening, but more manageable after the pre-dinner crowd thins out, and Martin makes it all the way until eight until he has the chance to plop down on the stool tucked under the pastry case. Only a few tables are occupied and the door hasn't opened for the last three minutes, and Martin is extremely grateful for the break. He really should start cleaning up behind the counter to make closing easier, but his feet hurt, dammit.
He gets a full ten minutes sitting down – unheard of for a Saturday evening – before the door opens and shuts, and Martin lurches unsteadily back to his feet to greet the new customer. The line is empty, though, and he looks out the front window fast enough to see the back of Jon moving out of sight.
"Damn," Martin mutters.