Chapter Text
> Enter Name
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you fucking hate coffee. No, okay, that’s a lie, you don’t hate coffee. Coffee is great. You drink that shit so often you could probably replace your blood with a caffeine drip and there would be literally no difference because you’re a broke college kid and when you’re not working your crappy part time job you’re chugging coffee like you’ll fucking die if you don’t because you have so much material to study it’s not even funny. It’s the part where you make the coffee that you fucking hate.
Then again, anybody would hate coffee when they have to make hundreds of the fucking cups every god damn day and somehow you became the coffee expert so guess what you do exclusively and repeatedly at a little place called LOLCAT Café! You’re the fucking barista, it’s you, and you’re the only one that your boss calls “compurrtent” enough to put these convoluted coffee mixtures together. You think it’s because you’re a picky fucker. Or it could be because they know you don’t really like doing the whole people thing and people order coffee a hell of a lot more then tea, so you’re more likely to be making things rather than manning any sort of register. That is not your job and there are a lot of very good reasons for that.
However if you’re being honest, you’d still rather be making tea. You’re pretty sure it would be perfect if you could make tea and also not talk to anyone. Tea’s much less aggravating than coffee, or at least it seems so from your end. Your coworker, former classmate, friend, and sister to the owner, Nepeta Leijon, assures you that tea is just as annoying to make but she loves every minute of it, “:33”. You’d say you could hear the cat face in her voice as she talks but you don’t have to, since she can make it very easily. It comes with the whole “being a sphinx” thing.
> Wait what.
What?
> Reflect on Nepeta being a sphinx for a second
What’s there to reflect on? She just came out of puberty with a lioness’s body and black/blonde bird wings and, well, if it looks like a sphinx and sounds like a sphinx and says it’s a sphinx, it’s most likely a sphinx. You came out as a demon, who are you to judge?
She can probably use magic to make herself look less sphinxy but she thinks her wings are the absolute cutest! And she’s not really willing to put them away.
> You make no sense
If you want exposition you’re looking at the wrong narrator.
> Fine, continue to hate coffee
That’s totally a thing you can do.
You’ve just finished pushing another cup of “Catamel Meowciato” (what is it with sphinxes and the cat puns, honestly, you don’t go around making demon puns all the time, not that you can think of any) towards the pickup counter and barking out the bland ass name scrawled on the cup when the door opens, sending the annoying chime over the door into a flurry of discordant notes. At this Nepeta rears up on her hind legs to put her strangely humanoid lion’s paws onto the Order Here counter and call out, “Welcome to the Land of Little Cubes and Tea Café!”
You turn to look at the doorway purely out of reflex, because you always look at the doorway when that bell clangs its assault on your eardrums, and your eyes fall on what looks like the derpiest fucking slime boy and the douchiest phoenix you have ever seen in your entire life. The former has the goofiest buckteeth in the existence of ever; the other’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Sunglasses indoors are an automatic notch on the douche-o-meter in your book.
“Is LOLCAT really short for that?” Asks the bucktoothed wonder with his bright grin, walking up to the counter. You quietly thank any powers that be that he doesn’t leave wet footprints on the floor; you all take turns cleaning after work and today’s your lucky day to mop and scrub after hours. You then quietly retract all those thanks you just gave because the phoenix boy walks after his friend with oversized blond and red wings twitching behind him and promptly knocks over the only table in the entire café with an open sugar jar and makes the biggest fucking mess you’ve ever fucking seen. He doesn’t even jump and say sorry, just picks it back up and skirts around the huge sugar ring. You think you notice the red at the tips of his wings spreading across his appearance, but you could be imagining things. His face still remains mostly impassive, so you’re definitely seeing things. Great.
You hate your job.
His slime friend, who had actually jumped at the sound of a table crashing to the floor, did what you wanted to do and thumped the offender in the chest. “Dave! What the fuck!” He looks over at you with the brightest blue eyes to ever be set into pale green ooze ever, probably noticing that you’re glaring daggers into his friend Dave. Personally, you’d like to call him something more along the lines of “Shades McDouchefuck.” You like that nickname it has a nice ring to it and is completely fitting; it’s either that or something along the lines of insufferable prick.
“Accident.” Dave shrugs, pulling those giant wings closer to him. They’re red now, almost obscenely bright red (Terezi would laugh and say they smelled like cherries if she were here), and fade into blonde towards the top, which is almost completely gone. He’s blonde, of course he’s blonde, all phoenixes are blonde because phoenixes only come in one fucking color. He’s also got a feather braided into his hair, it’s barely long enough to support a braid and yet there it is, bright red and offending and braided into his hair as if it belongs there. It’s probably one of his too. Jesus. You think you can see just the slightest bit of downy feathers fluffing up from his skin. That’s a little weird. Yep, you’ve completely gone fucking crazy. That has to be it. He looks completely chilled, and in your experience, people only monster out when they’re flustered. Which he is not.
The slime fusses around, pushing the table out of harm’s way. You appreciate the gesture, futile as it is, and proceed to quietly appreciate him. He’s got two lays of color to him, translucent green lying over an opaque blue core. That’s what keeps people from seeing their skeletons and organs, you remember, since liquid-based organisms usually still have some semblance of structure. He’s tall and filled out, not a rail like his friend and not compact like you. He looks soft and gentle and, shit, kind of really cute. You sort of wonder just how slimy his skin really is, he doesn’t appear to be leaving any residue on shit, though he hasn’t really touched anything over then his friend at this point.
“Oh no, it’s okay!” Nepeta assures her customers, backing up and taking paws off the counter. She smiles a grin full of sharp teeth that’s only a little bit threatening and leans forward to inspect the damage as if she couldn’t see it when her unnecessary (but admittedly kind of endearing) hello position made her at least two feet taller. “We’ll get it, don’t worry.” And by we, she means whoever doesn’t have to service them. You kind of hope they order coffee.
Slimeboy looks uncertain but he slides up to the counter anyway, pursing his lips and squinting at the menu. He’s got the dorkiest glasses too, and you let yourself add it to the list of why you keep calling him adorable. The files in your brain read: Persons you’ll never see again > that guy with Shades McDouchefuck > Glasses and grins. You’ve kind of got a thing for glasses and grins. You like to file away the cute ones in your brain, so you can revisit the thought of their image later. You organize some things and pretend to be busy.
They take a million and a half years to order and by the time they’ve actually told Nepeta what it is that they want, you kind of want to beat them both over the head with a mop because you’ve got kind of a thing against those assholes who go up to the counter and take five hundred years to make up their minds.
Nepeta pushes both cups your direction with a bright grin, lightly hip-checking you with her furry rump as she busies herself getting a broom. Coffees it is, then, you think as you decode the olive green scrawl on the stupid coffee-cup material (seriously you have no idea what it is, cardboard? Paper? Plastic? Styrofoam?).
Dave Strider is messily written on one, proclaiming that he wants a “Skinny Vanilla Latte” (one of the few items on the menu that isn’t cat punned). It’s such a stereotypical hipster drink you kind of want to roll your eyes at it because you’ve made it so many damned times. The other just reads John. Well, John and “Espurresso Meowciato X33.” (That last bit was Nepeta’s own thing; she tends to put little happy faces on the cups that have cat puns on them. Most of the cups have cat puns on them.)
You roll your eyes and get to it. You watch the walking disaster and John out of the corner of your eye as they sit down (with apparently some fuss, maybe a lot of fuss, Shades McDouchefuck kept looking around and moving to a different table for some reason) and chat at each other merrily. You might be imagining it but you swear you can feel eyes at the back of your head. It’s kind of unnerving, actually. You tell yourself he’s probably just impatiently waiting for the coffee you have under your hands as you carefully put the one on the pick-up counter. Dave can wait a few god damn seconds for you to do his. “John!”
He jumps you think you can see his slime jiggle a bit unsettlingly with the sudden movement, pushes the glasses up on his nose and scrambles to the counter. You watch him for a brief moment as he grabs the cup, you can see greenish blue residue beginning to settle onto it, well that answers one question you guess. You turn away for a moment before you call out the next name. Shades McDouchefuck doesn’t jump, you’re kind of resentful, he just comes and grabs his stupid hipster coffee when you bark out “Dave Strider!”
You glance at the clock as Strider walks back to where he and John have set up shop. Your lunch break won’t be for another half-hour or so at least. Fuck. You’re starving, and while you could sink your teeth right into Jane’s pastries here you know Meulin, your boss, would probably beat you half to death for eating on the job since you’re not paying for it. Also it’s unprofessional. And you’d rather be downstairs in the food court of Skaia Mall so you can meet up with your asshole of a friend Sollux and collectively bitch about your jobs. Your friendship is basically complaints and bitching and you’re pretty okay with that.
LOLCAT Café isn’t a busy place, and with the two coffees made. You decide to join Nepeta in cleaning up; hip-checking her right back towards the bathroom to wash off the dexterous paws she uses for walking and grabbing. She manages to stand on her hind legs surprisingly well and doesn’t even stumble as you grab broom and dustpan from her. You’d probably slam flat on your face in her position since you’re a fucking dumbass with enough motor control to accidentally run into an open door.
You’re furiously trying to track down the extent of the sugary damage (jesus that blast radius) when a very loud noise suddenly gets your attention. It’s a very loud and very ugly “BLERGH!” and it’s coming from one particular table seating a feathery asshole and green-blue slime. In fact, it’s coming from the green-blue slime. John, you remember, is making the dumbest fucking face you have ever seen on anyone in your brief existence, lips pulled comically back and tongue lolled out and he’s making that disgusted face at his coffee.
His coffee that you made.
God damn it. Did you fuck something up? You swear you didn’t fuck something up. You work irate all the time. It’s kind of like a default with you. Shift coming up, well, better put on your best angry face and hate everything for the next four to six hours! It doesn’t allow you to fuck up, if anything you just get anal about the details and measurements of everything. You wonder if you should go over and see if there’s anything wrong but you get a bit distracted with glowering at Strider’s wings.
Strider’s wings are swinging about haphazardly as he leans left and right on the falsely-ornate chair, coming dangerously close to other tables. He’s got his phone out, holding it up like he’s a fucking master photographer because that’s what he’s doing; he’s taking a shitty fucking picture of his coffee. You could laugh if you weren’t so concerned that those flailing things were going to crash into a chair or a table or, oh god, why is he sitting so close to the coffee display, please stop that right now.
It’s a miracle when he does stop. He probably does because John waved a hand in front of his face and hissed something quietly that you couldn’t hear. You’re a demon with some pretty good senses, but only if you tap into them. The only one you can’t flick on and off are your eyes, which’re always a pretty intense red. It lets you see things in extreme detail, though, which can be pretty useful actually.
You’re watching them so intently that you actually see John take a drink and almost immediately drop it to the table, face pinched tight and hand clapped to his mouth. You think you can hear a high pitched “mmmnerghmmgluhiiiih”-esque whine through the drippy fingers. You’re torn between laughing and getting angry because he obviously doesn’t like your coffee.
You get angry. It’s kind of a default. You get angry and quietly seethe as he continues to take these tentative sips and attempt to muffle the dumbest noises and you get back behind the counter and wipe down some equipment and pretend you’re not angry.
You focus on their table though, using your supernatural hearing. You guess now is as good a time as any to see what the hell is going on over there.
“Dude, just give it a rest.”
“No way, I’m gonna drink it!”
“It’s fucking hilarious bro, but seriously you’re gonna break something. You don’t even have anything to break and you’re gonna break something. Your face is going to get stuck like that, just watch, it’s gonna dry stuck in that weird ass grimace and bam, you’re making that face for the rest of your days.”
“Bluh Dave, you’re being dumb. I can’t just throw it out! I bought it and I’m gonna drink it, just watch. Plus I have bones, remember?”
“Egbert, I will throw it away if you don’t stop that right now.”
“You can’t stop me!” There’s another groan-whine-bleh that you imagine is John taking a drink and regretting all of his life choices.
“That’s it, give it here.” You hear what sounds like a scuffle and you turn to direct your best glare in their direction, worried again for the tall display of different kinds of coffee Meulin likes to arrange in fancy patterns every morning she comes in to work. It’s really pretty and really complicated and you’d like to keep it from going over. It’s shaped like a teapot this week and you are not going to be the person to reconstruct said coffee teapot.
Your glare is perfect, capable of cowing even the most enraged of customer and, to be completely honest, there’s very little more difficult to shut up than a pissed off middle aged white woman whose soy latte isn’t exactly right. You’re a little late though, considering Strider already has both his and John’s coffees in both hands and he’s got a pretty good beeline for the trash can going on.
Did he even drink his latte?
The answer is no, no he didn’t, because the thump that comes from the bottom of the barrel is the sound of a completely full cup and a half full one. You attempt not to rip the rag you’re holding in two and succeed, for the most part. You think the middle might be a little thinner than it was before. You’re grateful that you’re not freakishly strong like Nepeta’s not-boyfriend that she loves in all ways but actual romance, because you’d probably have broken basically everything by this point.
“Let’s bounce, dude.”
John puts his arms behind his back and makes dumb faces of petulance. “You’re lame Dave, totally uncool. The uncoolest.”
Strider frowns, just the slightest. “Dude. No.”
He’s not prepared for hands at his sides skirting up to his armpits and you watch in horror as those fucking wings (you’re starting to have a thing against phoenix wings, sorry all other phoenixes, Dave Shades McDouchefuck Strider has ruined all of his kind for you) spasm out with the loud SNERK of stifled laughter and there go some tables, crash to the ground, oh look, killed by giant feathery wings. You’d hold a fucking funeral for the things if you could think of anything other than something along the lines of “oh fuck not again.” Shades McDouchefuck’s appearance has visibly altered, you see the red fading to orange on his wings, and he’s got these downy little feathers fluffed all around his neck, his hair visibly disturbed. He looks comical, somewhere between frightened baby chicken and unsettled owl. You’re surprised his legs haven’t reverted to digitigrade with how unsettled he looks.
Irately, you wave the offenders out of your café with a low and probably less than polite “No, leave it, I’ll deal with it, have a nice day.” You keep the profanities locked behind your teeth somehow and they leave with one bright “Bye!” from John.
Nepeta has the broom out by the time you reach the counter. Twenty minutes until your lunch break.
You hate your job.
> Go to lunch
The first words that come out of your mouth the second you see the glowering laptop-headed asshole you call one of your best friends are something along the lines of “I’m sorry I’m late there were these fucking idiots in the café today it was literally the worst thing in the entire universe okay, there is nothing worse-“
He cuts you off with a hand thrust in your direction, the helpful graphic of a stick figure beating its head against a table flashing across his face, and the words “I don’t even want to hear it KK, you have no idea what true pain is, come back when you’ve dealt with the fucking asshole I had to endure today and yesterday.” lisped in your direction.
“Okay but there was these morons, two of them Sollux, two of the worst pungent probing shitmonkies in the entire universe, do you even know how many tables they knocked over, they knocked over fucking TABLES in the café and for some reason Nepeta hasn’t banned them-“
“No, KK, shut up, you want to talk about people who should be banned, this fishfaced fuck came in yesterday and there was water everywhere, literally on everything and everywhere, I had to dry the fucking sweaters twice, TWICE, I should not have to dry the same stupid sweaters twice back to back-“
“There was sugar literally everywhere, over like the entire floor and there’s Nepeta behind the counter trying not to track the granular cavity crystals all over the place and there I am, armed with nothing but a broom and a dustpan, hurriedly sweeping up the disaster zone before somebody can come in and bash their head open on the ground because sugar’s fucking slippery on tile-“
“Aradia fell flat on her ass, hooves everywhere, and I’m on my hands and knees mopping this shitfest up with a towel, a fucking towel, do I look like Equius? The answer is no, shut up-”
“They didn’t even like my coffee Sollux, Shades McDouchefuck just threw his out and Buckteeth McWonder wouldn’t stop pulling stupid ass faces every couple seconds-“
“Water all over the glasses, I had to clean all of them-“
“Didn’t even try to fix things-“
You two are basically dissolving into a slew of complaints and wild gestures, yours exponentially more flail-tastic than Sollux’s. He gets the privilege of little digital stick figures illustrating his point right across his face, you somehow end up pantomiming both tickling and wings flying out at the same time. Everybody in the food court pretends not to see you guys acting like inebriated dumbshits, or at least everybody who’s been there more than twice. This is a regular occurrence and you two are stupid.
It takes about five minutes for you two to successfully vent out all the really loud and obnoxious frustration and finally sit down. It’s always good to bitch at each other. You eat shitty hamburgers and trade more coherent retellings of your last hour for a more accurate retelling of Sollux’s last hour.
Apparently this fishy fucker (Sollux’s words, straight from the speakers), came into the store in a bubble. There was then a three minute rant about how he’s in a bubble (apparently fishfolk can get legs if they really try hard enough (you vaguely remember that Kanaya’s girlfriend is fishfolk herself and you probably figured as much anyway)) and there’s really no reason for him to have a water bubble. But there he was, in that bubble, trying on clothes and fucking them up. Sollux was roped into something akin to “personal fashion assistant” and got the honest to god privilege of holding each dripping wet scarf. In the end, he bought nothing. Of course.
“And that’s the short version,” he lisps at you as he checks the power cord attaching his brain to an outlet. He doesn’t actually eat food on his lunch breaks (how would he, he’s got no fucking mouth); Sollux just takes out a power cable and sticks it in the nearest outlet. There’s a small [charging] sign at the top right corner.
You admit it’s pretty bad. You have to admit it’s pretty bad, you don’t get a choice in the matter. You’re so fucking glad you don’t work retail. You quietly admit defeat in the “who had the shittier shift” category and move on to challenge him in the “who’s got the worst professor” category. Both of you attend The University of Prospit and somehow you managed not to realize it for the longest fucking time last year. You were in the same dorms. Your current roommate was his old roommate. You guys have the same fucking major for christ’s sake, both of you trudging through Computer Science like fucking champs.
Well okay, you’re trudging like some little old lady walking through knee deep mud in a swamp. Sollux is breezing through with stupid memes on his screen and you can imagine the shit-eating grin he would have if he, you know, could actually grin. You kind of suck at the whole computers thing. Often you sit at your desk and rant and scream and rave and maybe sometimes you actually break down crying when talking to Kanaya because you’re convinced you won’t get through the semester without failing all your classes because you just can’t understand coding for shit. You’ll get it eventually, though. You always get it eventually, you tell yourself firmly.
“KK, these fucking teachers don’t know shit.” If Sollux had eyes you bet he’d be rolling them at you. “I could do all these assignments in my fucking sleep. It’s child’s play!”
“Maybe your class, I’m dying over here.” You check the time to see you’ve got maybe like five more minutes before you have to pretend that making coffee has been your dream in life all along.
“No offence, but you kind of suck.”
“Fuck you too.” You shoot him a run-of-the-mill glare and scarf down what remains of lunch with a pretty ugly noise because you’re hungry and this place has very little good food. “I’m awesome at this shit kay, the best fucking thing in the universe. And fuck you for insinuating otherwise.” You’re bluffing about as hard as you could possibly bluff. You’re probably the worst, or at least pretty far down.
“You couldn’t code your way out of a wet paper bag.” He says with a well-practiced deadpan. He’s worked on that for years, you swear. Standing up, he unplugs the cord attaching his face to the outlet while you hurriedly gulp down the rest of your shitty carbonated sugar slurry and attempt to glare at him at the same time.
“Whatever, Sollux. What-the-fucking-ever, I’ve got to get back to being the best fucking barista this mall has ever seen.” You roll your eyes in the most exaggerated manner you can just in case the sarcasm didn’t get across.
“Yeah, yeah, I was supposed to be back to work like ten minutes ago but I had to wait for you because your sorry ass was late!”
You flip him the finger as you skulk off back towards LOLCAT Café.
> ==>
The next time you work is two days after the sugar-table-chair fiasco, once again making coffee after coffee after coffee. You don’t have to clean today, thank fuck. It’s about half an hour before your lunch break again when the door clangs open setting off its stupid chime, Nepeta calls out her usual greeting, and a strangely familiar voice goes: “So does LOLCAT really stand for that?”
You look over still out of habit and there’s a blue-green slimeboy with eyes shaming the ocean for color staring up at the menu, buckteeth hooked over his lower lip. The shades-wearing phoenix quietly walks in behind him.
You immediately hate your life preemptively and decide to tell yourself that no, John isn’t fucking cute, he’s a customer with an annoying as shit friend who needs to please turn around and leave as soon as he’s done. And yet you still can’t help but admire the way the color of his core shows through his top layer. The layering of the colors is maybe, just maybe a little bit cool. You will give him that and only that.
“Nah, I just like to call it that.” Nepeta says confidentially, a hand brought up to her face to execute the exaggerated stage whisper. “It’s super cute, don’t you think?”
“The cutest,” John agrees with a vigorous nod that you resolutely don’t file under Endearing. “Can we get, uh…” He pauses, squinting at the menu. “A, um. Dave, what did you want?”
“Skinny Vanilla Latte.”
“Right! So, uh, that for a Dave Strider and…” You start pulling things together for Strider’s drink. “And a, um, White Chocolate Meow-cha? For John.”
“Meowcha. Like mocha! But meow!” Nepeta tells him as she writes and hands them your way with a cheery “Here you go, Karkitty!”
You take them from her with a noise that could potentially be you saying “thanks” or “okay” or “dear god why” and busy yourself as she grins and John laughs.
“Karkitty?”
You don’t respond because it’s not your job to talk to customers. It’s your job to bark out names and make coffee and that’s fucking it. Nepeta, however, leans over to continue the conversation about you. Your ears burn as you listen.
“His name is actually Karkat but Karkitty’s pawesomer.”
“Karkat? As in, like, beep-beep-meow? Car and cat, right?”
“There’s ks, not cs, but yeah! Just like that! He’s got a super cool name. And I’m Nepeta!”
“I’m John!” He says brightly, then blushes as he backs up towards the same table they sat on two days ago. Strider’s already sitting there, asshole wings lolled out behind him. At least his back isn’t to the coffee display this time. You pause for a brief moment wondering what exactly Strider could possibly be doing before it occurs to you that he’s photographing his coffee. Why the fuck? “But, uh, you already knew that.”
“Yeah I did.” She says and gives one of those smiles that you imagine when she types “x33” and turns to the new customer walking through the door. (You didn’t know him and you didn’t care.) “Welcome to the Land of Little Cubes and Tea Café!”
Out of spite you make a Skinny Vanilla Latte first this time, because you’re petty and John called you beep-beep-meow. What the actual fuck. Your name is unfortunately easy to fuck up and do something quirky. Nepeta calls you Karkitty. Sollux just goes by KK. .” Terezi likes to laugh your name out as Karkles, You’re pretty sure Sollux’s girlfriend called you Karcrab at some point, assholes who think they’re your friend try to call you “Kitkat” the list goes on and on. Alas you have digressed. The point is; most of the people who give you nicknames are your friends so you can just let it slide. Well except for the assholes, but at least you can punch them in the face usually. You’re kind of thankful he didn’t call you that, of all things. But he is not your friend. So the innocent botchery of your name manages to tick you off anyway.
“Dave Strider!”
Shades McDouchefuck ends up toppling the chair he was sitting on and the one behind him. You wince and turn away so you don’t accidentally rage glare at him. Of course he’d make a mess, he’s got those terrible gigantic wings; how could he not get rid of them? You think the colors are shifting closer to red again just like yesterday.
“John!”
He comes up with a bright look in his eyes and a nervous bounce in his step. “Hi Karkat!” he chirps as cold drippy hands clasp the cup you hadn’t fully put down yet. He touches your hand and his cheeks get a faint bluer tinge. “Thanks!”
“No problem,” you mutter in your not-as-grouchy-as-usual-but-probably-not-customer-service voice. It’s the usual voice you adopt when you’re trying to be friendly to customers. You don’t really do people interaction really well at work. You’re caustic and loud at the best of times and more often than not make exactly the wrong impression. That’s why Nepeta works the counter and not you.
John ends up making ridiculous faces as Strider snaps a few pictures of his coffee. Both cups go in the trash mostly full and then the trash can falls over because Feathery Asshole trips Goofy McStupidname and there he goes into the trash there goes the trash all over the floor, along with it all the half empty drinks inside of it. There is coffee, tea, cream and other substances all over the floor and it is going to be a giant sticky mess if you don’t clean it up immediately. Shit.
Nepeta rushes over on “oh no are you okay?!” duty as you grumble and head towards the broom closet for a mop.
By the time you exit the closet John has been fished from the trashcan and Shades McDouchefuck is laughing. John looks at least a little perturbed; he’s covered in coffee and whip cream and other such sticky liquid. Lucky for him, he’s sort of made out of a substance pretty close to liquid so the coffee just kind of sinks into his skin and slides off his clothes. They must be hydrophobic fabrics, that’s clever. You bet Kanaya would have a field day with it. You sulk over towards the trash can to mop up your poor, undigested coffee. You take a moment too long looking at John and tell yourself you’re just making sure he didn’t end up getting hurt. The last thing you want is for anybody to know that someone got fucking hurt at the coffee shop while you were working. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
John apologizes, says he’s fine, and grabs Dave by the arm, whisking him out of the Coffee shop while whispering something accusatory into the phoenix’s ears. You think you managed to catch bits and pieces about how he’s turning him into a giant embarrassment, or something. All you know is the floor is going to be sticky. Fucking lovely.
> ==>
The next time they come into the café, Dave Strider orders a Skinny Vanilla Latte and John asks for a “Traditional Catpuccino :33.” Strider takes a picture, of course Strider takes a picture, that’s going to be a thing, isn’t it? Strider is going to take fucking pictures. Dave Strider is a goddamn hipster assbucket. You’d been so good at not getting any of those in your shop. Usually, you know, people fucking drink the shit. Nope. Now you have a hipster nutbag. Maybe you can convince Nepeta to write his name wrong next time.
John, on the other hand, pours roughly twenty sugar packets in his cappuccino. And then as much cream as the cup can hold. You can see the hydrogen bonds forming a bubble just slightly over the rim of the cup. Oh great. Of course you already know that they can’t go a day without making some kind of mess you equate this with the likeness of hyper active puppies that piddle on the floor every time you let them run around inside.
You watch them, thoroughly unamused, as you wipe down the coffee machine and Nepeta busies herself heating up water. You’re starting to think John doesn’t like coffee to begin with. He spills it onto the counter, both of his shoulders bouncing slushily as he jumps back at the accident. “Shit!” You’re pretty sure he squeezed his cup just ever so slightly and the littler hydrogen bonds just couldn’t take it and broke, into a mess, that you have to clean up, as usual.
“Dude. What the fuck.” Dave pipes up.
“I didn’t mean to!” is John’s immediate response.
“Dude.”
“Dave don’t you dare ‘dude’ me one more time, I will tell Jade that you’re being dumb come help me.”
Strider reclines, ruffling blond feathers and checking out the pictures on his phone. “Nah.” He then promptly kicks his feet up onto the table. This causes you to freeze and double check your surroundings. Are you in public? Yes, you’re still in public. When did that douchefuck decide it was acceptable behavior to put his feet on tables that people he doesn’t know will eat off of!?
“I’ll get it,” you say as unhappily as customer service will let you. He fusses as you work, trying to help. “No, just go sit down, it’s fine. Take your disg- uh, take what’s left of your coffee and let me. It’s my job.”
“Let the man work, Egbert.”
“Dave, you’re such a butt!”
“Fine plush ass, according to your cou-”
“We are not going there.”
This continues for a while. You sigh, make sure the counter isn’t sticky, and go back to your business. Several face pulls later and a good waste of cream; John allows to Strider to finally throw out his fucking ruined coffee. That coffee had been fucking perfect, goddamn it, you’re fucking great at making coffee and the effort is entirely wasted on him.
“See you later!” John calls as they leave, waving a translucent hand at you. You’re beginning to hate yourself just a bit more than usual; they’re becoming regulars. John may have ended up in your cute customers file on the first day, that file is SUPPOSED to be exclusive to people you will never see again. This throws off your collection, so his status has been officially revoked. It doesn’t even matter that he’s still soft and has dark hair and glasses, or that he might even still be cute. Nope. Not one bit.
The time after that, another chair disaster happens. You hadn’t been paying that much attention, considering every time you pay attention you want to shove somebody’s ass onto a pike and go on a march declaring the victory of the fruity asshole rumpus party. (You try not to think of that too much; the words have memories but it’s still bitterly funny god damn it.) Apparently, from what you could gather in the aftermath, Dave said something.
Of course Dave Shades McDouchefuck Strider said something.
John, of course, decided that the best course of action was to slime his way halfway across the table and tickle the shit out of him. Between the flailing limbs, the high pitched shrieking, and the gross splating noises, you’re surprised the Leijons haven’t permanently banned them. They don’t like to ban regulars, because “return business hell yes :33,” but still. But fucking still.
Later, your only solace as you replace the defeated chairs. (RIP chairs)They’re not actually broken but close enough Strider sure has managed to beat them up in the last couple weeks shit. The only saving grace is the memory of Strider standing up more bird than man; all bright red from head to toe and a huge muff of feathers around his neck. And bird legs. The bird legs were the best part, you think fondly, because the bird legs were just that stupid. It was great. Fabulous. You’re also one hundred percent sure that he ruined his shoes. Containing bird feet in converses? That shit isn’t going to happen.
Almost cancels out the part where all the chairs went crash and you’re pretty sure this is on purpose at this point.
The time after that, Nepeta chats up John with a bright grin full of sharp teeth and tells him that earlier that day you’d poured coffee down your shirt when she spooked you. It was iced and you spent the next five minutes trying not to kill anything as you changed in the back while she ran everything like a champ. John laughs and you learn he laughs with his entire body. His skin giggles and his entire being seems to lighten with the motion. Literally, too, his colors literally get brighter and more florescent. You don’t want to say that it has any effect on your mood as a whole. You will be a crotchety asshole all you want, god damn it. You didn’t hand John his coffee with a little less reluctance then usual that day, and he didn’t beam at you like you’re the sun breaking the clouds on days when it seems like there will be nothing but rain. That isn’t a thing. It did not happen.
Three days after that event John orders a “Catamel Furappuccino” and you mentally fistpump because he actually drinks the fucking thing as Strider dumps his in the trash. You count that as at least one victory and bother to wave back when John shakes his hand at you as though it’s going to fall off.
Nepeta teases you the rest of your shift because “Awww, Karkitty! You look so happy you could purractically be purring!” Lucky for you, demons don’t purr, but they do go bright red. Fuck. She leans on your back and pokes your cheek whenever there’s a free moment, mewling every detail of your embarrassment.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” you glower. She actually hits you with her tail.
“Yes it is! I haven’t seen you this pleased with yourself in ages.” Another gentle boop at your cheek. “Do you liiiiiiiiiiiike him?”
“No!”
“Do you liiiiiiiiiike making coffee for him?”
“No!” You attempt to shrug her off.
“Hee hee!” She actually says that. She actually says “hee hee” as she drops down. You can hear the threes in the air. “I know, you’re just proud.”
“No I’m not.”
She calls you Grumpy Cat instead of Karkitty for the rest of the shift, but doesn’t stop insinuating that you might have “minor doki dokis,” as her sister would say. You think she’s crazy.
The next week Dave ends up overturning two tables when he crashes to the floor since his chair had mysteriously ended up a foot behind his ass. He looks more bird than man at this point, wings starting to form to his arms and face looking a little… beaky. His face is still deadpan, a little pained, as he hauls back up to his feet. John is laughing as you dejectedly head towards the supply closet, glowering at everything. He tries to talk to you as you clean, apologizing for accidentally causing the damage. He runs his mouth so fast you think he might actually be powered by the spoken word.
“-so anyway Dave’s brother has this really weird business-”
You try your best to mumble just enough to not seem rude but enough to make it apparent that you really don’t want to talk to the boy that personally tries to destroy your ego with every coffee cup thrown in the trash. No matter how cute his face is, the annoyance wins out. You eye his steaming LOLCAT Special mistrustfully.
“-and we were in the basement of this house, right, and Dave’s totally scared out of his mind-“
You wonder if you have it in you to politely tell him to shut up. Your “nice” voice is still something most people mistake for “bitchy and rude.” Your “bitchy and rude” is more along the lines of “snappy and violent” and your “snappy and violent” is somewhere in the range of “flipping shit.” Most people don’t actually see you flip your shit.
“-so that’s how we found out that there’s a dragon with a dildo hoard—“
Okay you’ve had it.
You whirl on him, pointing a broom handle towards his chest. Your chest inflates with the force of the words you’re going to snap at him violently and you’re pretty sure you’re already red in the face. He looks startled, and he should, considering how you can feel your face harden. You’d yell, you want to yell, but Nepeta’s staring at you from behind John, shaking her head violently. Her eyes are blown wide in urgency, making an X with her hands.
You grit your teeth and exhale long and slow, face pinched together.
“Please don’t talk to me while I’m working,” you say through your gritted teeth. He looks nervous and you’re trying so hard not to find it endearing; he’s an annoying shit at the best of times and personally insulting the rest and that’s final. You absolutely do not think about the fact that you can see him trembling it’s like you rattled a plate of Jell-O.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. You’re a little reminded of a puppy getting kicked, or at least a puppy that won’t get its treats. Apparently, conversations with you are treats?? In what universe is your company in any way sought after? You’re an asshole. He somehow thinks you’re not (customer service face, probably, even though yours absolutely sucks).
“It’s fine,” you sigh as you sweep up the last of the sugar disaster. You’re going to make a fucking appeal to get rid of sugar jars in this place. “I just can’t talk very well when I’m on the clock.”
Nepeta gives you a look when you come back behind the counter. It’s a look you’re familiar with, a long suffering one. It’s also half something else, and that half is the part that you don’t know very well.
“What?” You ask, reorganizing as usual. It keeps your hands busy.
She shrugs. “Nothing, I guess.” It’s definitely something and she isn’t going to tell you. Not yet.
You keep your interactions with John Egbert to a minimum after that.
> ==>
By the week after that you’ve admitted that Dave Strider and John are officially regulars in LOLCAT Café. You may have had a mini-mental break down when you came to this realization, but nothing that required someone else to come to your immediate rescue. Strider always orders a Skinny Vanilla Latte and John always orders something completely random. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t know what anything on the menu is and chooses the first thing he sees. You’re determined not to find it funny because you work hard on those coffees and watching them go straight in the trash is basically a slap across the face every single time. It’s like what you do isn’t good enough for them, really!
You don’t understand why John doesn’t just order the “Catamel Furappuccino” again because he actually fucking drank the thing. But no, he just continues on his bullshit tornado through the LOLCAT Café coffee menu.
You’ve been trying your absolute best not to let it get to you. You try to tell yourself that they don’t even like coffee, probably, but in your heart of hearts you don’t believe it. It’s like every and any excuse to hate yourself just sticks like burs to you, especially as the stresses pile up as weeks become months and midterms rear their ugly head.
(You spend more time than you’d like to admit kneeling on the carpet wailing like a baby because you don’t fucking understand anything and you’re so grateful that Gamzee usually goes off and does fuck knows what half the nights because you couldn’t think about what you’d do if he was witness to one of these god awful moments of misery and suffering.)
You feel so sorry for Kanaya, truly. She’s a fucking saint. The most wonderful person you’ve ever known. The beautiful moth-light of your life. She comes over when you need her and quietly shooshes you as you bawl your head off over whatever specific misery has befallen you. She can’t help you with your work but by the time she leaves you at least don’t feel like you’re literally the scum of the earth because you don’t even know how to fucking code.
More than once she’s tried to suggest that you change majors, just as almost everybody else has. It’s evident that you fucking suck. You’re barely passing your classes and that’s with hours and hours of work spent poured into each and every little line of script, hell! You might not even be passing your classes at all if it weren’t for Sollux. You don’t admit it very often but you have some pretty good friends.
> Karkat: focus back on work
You can’t focus back on work because you’re currently sitting in the back on your break with your laptop out and a snarl placed firmly on your face.
“What the heinous dicksmoking pustulefuck is this shit?” You growl to yourself, rubbing harshly at your eyes and trying very hard to keep focused. You’ve got maybe several expressos racing through your bloodstream and by this point you’re spending every waking moment not at work attempting to figure things out for school. You’re sleeping maybe four hours a night if you’re lucky and you’ve cut communication with basically everybody you know beyond your close friends because you can’t divulge the brainpower to give them the time of day. The lines are starting to bleed together and it’s frustrating the fuck out of you because the timer goes off after ten minutes and you’ve literally gotten jack shit done. You don’t know up from down or left from right in this script. It’s due tomorrow and it’s not even a test or anything, this is just a bullshit homework assignment that you’re trying to go back over in some fruitless effort at studying.
Midterms are in a few days and you don’t know shit. You’re basically screwed.
You scrub at your eyes and come out right as Nepeta pokes her head in to check on you. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you grumble and ignore the twisting feeling in your stomach.
It’s about half an hour later of wiping down tables and pouring coffees when John and Dave make their customary appearance. (You wonder how the fuck they can spend so much money on coffee almost every goddamn day.) They talk with Nepeta, Strider even saying a few words, before paying for a Skinny Vanilla Latte and an Iced Coffee with Milk.
It’s routine at this point. You make their coffee, they sit down, you watch Strider’s wings as they shimmy through tables and John tries to make an ass out of his friend. You call their names without even having to look down; John jumps up to get them with a shiny grin and the most perfect blue eyes and you mumble out a “no problem.” He looks almost worried, dripping a bit on the counter, and you know you have to look like absolute shit but the amount of fucks you give can be counted on less than one hand.
Nepeta smiles and jokes with you and you try to smile back at her as you clean up slimeboy’s mess. She’s just turned around to greet a new customer when you catch sight of John gagging on his coffee, spitting out an ice cube and dropping it on the table with a little shove towards Dave, who’s already standing up with his pictures taken and heading towards the trash can and you-
You can’t take this anymore.
Nepeta turns around with a stupid plastic cup in her hand and almost drops it because she sees you standing there like an asshole with what are definitely not tears tracking down your face and your entire body shaking with suppressed sobs. “Are you okay?”
You try to nod and say yes. You make a valiant effort to be coherent. What comes out, however, is a strangled noise that’s quite obviously a sob. And once you start, you can’t stop. You’re trying so hard to keep it together but you have shit control over your emotions and you’re exceptionally compromised as it is. You think you see John staring at you through your tears but your vision’s really blurry with a red tinge and you’ve got your hands up at your face, pressing hard enough against your eyes to see stars. You’re loud and just a step behind bawling and shaking so hard you feel like you’re going to be sick. You can vaguely hear worried talk around you and a sharp “I’m sorry but we’re busy at the moment, please wait five minutes!”
Somehow, you go from standing right behind the counter to sitting back in the break room, gentle paws on your face.
“Karkat. Karkitty. Look at me.” Nepeta’s worried about you. You swallow fresh air in heaving gulps and stare up at her with what’s probably the most unguarded expression you’ve had in public in months, if not years. You can’t keep the glare up; you’re too tired and too worn down. “I’m extending your break and calling Meulin. You can’t work yourself to death! Do you need me to call anybody for you?”
God, you’re pathetic. You can’t even go through a single day at work anymore.
“Kanaya,” you croak out hoarsely, once you can get the sobs to stop. “Can you call Kanaya?” God your sound like shit, you don’t even want to think about what you may look like. You know at least for certain your face is stained pink.
She just pats your knee and thumps your head with hers. “Okay.”
You don’t know how much time has passed before you hear the clack of heels against the floor and there comes Kanaya, lean and beautiful. She’s tall and fluffy-furred with regal angles to her face and always looks perfectly in style even though she has to work all of her outfits around the fact that she’s got several unchangeable muffs of fur because she came out of her change as a moth. Her antennae tickle your face as she drops off her bag and sits down next to you, pulling your face into the fluff around her pale white chest. You’d calmed down a bit, sniffling and just hating yourself quietly rather than loudly and in public. You hate yourself even more for making a scene.
“What’s wrong?” Kanaya asks softly. She’s got a rich voice, low but feminine and refined and so soothing to your ears. If you were in any state to do so, you would probably question what she was doing before she just dropped whatever it was to come console your sorry ass. She probably stopped doing something important. She’s usually doing something important, and always so willing to just completely stop whatever it is and scoop you up in her arms like some superhero.
You officially collapse into a mess of weepy failure again.
You’re not entirely sure what comes out of your mouth is actual coherent words. You try to say something along the lines of “Midterms are hard and nobody understands” or “I’m going to fail, Kanaya, I’m going to fail and everything I’ve worked for will be for nothing” or “I can’t fail college, what will Kankri say? What will my dad say?” or “I can’t even make coffee right anymore, they never drink it Kan, these assholes come in and never fucking drink my coffee, do I really make shit coffee?” and “I’m worth literally nothing what the fuck is wrong with me?” You’re not really sure if that’s what comes out but you don’t ever care. For all you care you could just be whining incoherently into fluff. It doesn’t matter, you’re a failure anyway.
She pets your hair through your blubbers soothingly. You think there’s something sharp and angry in her face, but you’re probably imagining it because your eyes are tired. You’re so tired, your eyes ache like a bitch, and your muscles feel like they’re going to just slough right off your bones. Jeez, how much sleep did you even get last night? Basically none, you had fallen asleep at your computer somewhere past 5am. There was an alarm on your phone set for when you needed to be up to get ready for work, which was pretty early this morning. Six? Six-thirty?
“I hope you know you’re not going back to work.”
“What?” You stare up at her with the most stupidly pathetic look, you know it. You try to school your face back to the hard glare you usually adopt but you’re too tired. Crying takes a lot of out a demon. “No, Kanaya, I- I have to get back to work, my shift’s not over for-“ fuck, how long have you been back here?
“Nepeta informed me over the phone that she and her sister can handle the store without you for a day. Meulin has demanded that you go home and relax so that you don’t pop a brain vessel from stress.” She boops you on the nose, though not unkindly “And you need to not think about work and school for one day, Karkat. Just one. You can return to twisting your mind into knots afterwards.”
The mumble that comes out of your mouth sounds suspiciously like “you can’t stop me” or “but I have so much work to do” and wow, you must be exhausted to say something like that in front of Kanaya. Her lips form a thin painted line and whoop, there you go, and she’s strong for somebody who’s part insect. You don’t even have a choice at this point; you’re up on your feet while she walks around throwing your things into your backpack. She has a firm grip on your wrist pulling you around the room. You would put up a fight if you had the slightest bit of fight in your bones, but you don’t. You’re so tired.
“I can-“
She glares at you and you shut up.
With her soft hands on your shoulders she marches you out with an iron grip, waving cheerfully at Nepeta and Meulin (who apparently came in to handle your fuck up).
“Thanks for the hard work!” Meulin shouts at you, much louder than she needed to but it’s not like she could tell. A sphinx like her sister, she keeps her hair pulled up in a high but messy ponytail for work. She’s got so much hair. The only other person you know with quite that much hair is Sollux’s girlfriend. And ex-girlfriend. “See you next time!” she calls as you’re led out of the café. You glare at the floor disobediently.
Kanaya marches you to her car (something you don’t have; you just walk everywhere and take public transportation because this city is literally the worst place to have a car in ever, also you can’t really afford the gas) and all but throws you into the passenger seat in the politest manner you could ever expect from her. She even buckles you in, in what you assume is a passive-aggressive manner learned from her girlfriend. You have yet to actually meet Rose, but Kanaya’s told you a lot about her, including the passive-aggressive fights she used to have with her “mom.”
It’s a half-hour drive to your house from work on a good day, and this time it takes fifty. Or, at least, you assume it takes fifty. The moment Kanaya folds her wings into the vehicle (specially made for winged monsters like her and your roommate’s boyfriend, Tavros) and starts up the car your head leans up against the window and you don’t quite remember anything due to passing out or at least existing in some vague form of consciousness that was definitely less than awake.
She wakes you up gently when you get home, nudging you in the general direction of the house. You tense, remembering that she’s not on any friendly terms with Gamzee (like, at all, she’d probably chainsaw him in half or something. That girl can wield a chainsaw so fucking well; she had a bit of a phase a while back. Wore flannel and everything.) and you’re rather glad to find that the apartment is empty. It reeks of brine, meaning Gamzee probably showered recently and got kelpie stink on almost everything he owns in some weird possessive claim. He usually disappears after he showers; you don’t think about what that implies. He’s pretty chill outside of the water though, high off his ass and calling you “his motherfucking best friend” almost all the time, so he’s a pretty good roommate. If he were actually neat and clean and organized, he might even be almost perfect.
You sit your ass down on your bed as Kanaya walks around the room. It’s a small place, cluttered with your crap (large bed, small desk, small lamp, closet gaping open, chair on the floor from where you toppled it over this morning while trying to stand coherently after an almost-all-nighter. (As in, you basically napped for about an hour and a half before jolting awake and forcing yourself to crawl to the computer and chug down cold coffee.) She cleans up all the random coffee cups and sweeps your floor with her wings held up out of the mess, gently ruffling your hair with a perfectly manicured hand every time you say something along the lines of “you don’t have to.”
“Yes I do and you can’t stop me,” she says kindly and pushes you back until you’re lying down.
You fall asleep again in maybe five minutes. You are not sure how long you sleep for but you know you sleep like the dead when you’re that tired. It’s like someone just knocked you out, or you took a bath in some weird ass vat of slime bullshit leaving your brain dreamless and quiet for the whole of eternity. You don’t dream very often anyway, but when you do they are not usually pleasant dreams, when you were younger you used to avoid sleeping all together for days on end. You do it now more out of necessity then anything.
You wake up feeling a bit rude and very much like a dick. She made you breakfast.