Work Text:
7am
Yawn.
Shut off your alarm that is far too chipper for this early in the morning.
Sit up, stretch, take a moment to smooth out your worn pastel pink bedsheets - a habit enforced by years of nagging from your mother.
Pull on your work clothes and toss your pajamas into the hamper on the other side of your room; a feat that would have maybe been impressive if your room wasn’t the size of a shoebox.
Head down the hall, avoiding the squeaky floorboards, so you don’t wake your mom, whose likely still sleeping.
Grab a strawberry granola bar from the kitchen counter. Catch a glimpse of the rug on the opposite wall - beautiful warm colours, hand-sewn using traditional Navajo methods. A wedding gift your parents had received from your grandmother, and a fixture of your house for more years than you can remember. Smile wistfully. Remember, you don’t have time to reminisce right now. Leave for work.
7:20am
Pull into “your” parking spot ( two to the left of the front door) to the tune of Runaway With Me by Carly Rae Jepsen. Take a few minutes to finish listening to the song and pulling your hair into a presentable ponytail. Pull on your visor and head into work.
Greet Zeke. Sign a hello to Sam, the sole line cook. Sam’s a master at lipreading, so the signing isn’t truly necessary, but you still feel it’s the polite thing to do.
Pull out the broom and sweep the floors. Wipe down the tables and wrap the utensils into napkins. You’re a well-oiled machine at this point, having done it for five years. Pause in your utensil wrapping as you recheck your math. Yep, it’s been five years. You let the number sink in for a moment. Is it weird to feel old at 22?
8:00am
You’re behind the counter as soon as the clock strikes the hour. Not long after that, the morning coffee crowd comes streaming in.
Folks come in, say or maybe just mumble a greeting and then their order.You’d take their money, make their coffee, and they’d be out the door. A couple of people would sit in. Some of the retirees would come in to socialize over breakfast. Sheriff Johnson would order his extra large coffee and pull out the Salt Flats Standard paper for the day. But that would be about it.
Otherwise, you’re spending your first few hours at work making coffee and cleaning coffee pots.
11am
Take your first 15 minute break. Sit in the pantry that’s been converted to the breakroom with a coffee of your own. Pull out your phone and see if any of the four people you know but don’t work with have texted you. Mom? No. Tara? No, you’d known that girl for a decade - and Tara had never willingly gotten up before 1pm once. Vert? You take a peak. Nope. Not a big surprise; he was never one for texting. Not to mention the fact he’d been having the busiest year of his life with his new friends.
That leaves Hope. There is a notification next to her name - looks like she just sent a text a few minutes ago. ‘ 99 on my Shakespeare essay! Prof said it was the best one he’d ever read :)’ it reads.
You beam reading it, and send back a trio of the partying emoji, the one with the rainbow hat and noise maker. Hope had worried about that essay endlessly for the past week, but you’d known she’d do good. She’s way smarter than you, despite being six years your junior. “Gifted,” had been the word Hope’s eigth grade teacher used when she and the principal of Handlers Corners Elementary met with their mom. “So naturally curious. As much as I love having Hope as a student, she could be so much more if she were in more advanced classes.”
They’d pitched having her sister take the Danforth Academy entrance exam. Danforth, they explained, is a Texas boarding school that boasted an 85 percent Ivy League acceptance rate for students who did all four years of highschool there. Her mom had been hesitant - money was already tight, and a school like that didn’t operate for free. But she’d relented, and Hope spent a week studying for the test.
She did so well on the exam that the school awarded her enough scholarship money to cover her tuition. You remember the day the letter came in the mail vividly, the bone crushing hug you gave Hope as she cried with joy. They’d gone out to eat that night, getting celebratory icecream to mark the occasion. Then, after Hope had gone to bed, you sat down with your mom and crunched some numbers.
The tuition was taken care of, but that still left the cost of boarding and food for each school year, plus you had to cough up enough money upfront for uniforms and transportation. It was a tall order. Money had been tight ever since your dad died, not long after Hope’s first birthday. Your mom worked as a seamstress and a few years later opened a modestly successful etsy store, but her chronic pain prevented her from working as many hours as she would’ve liked. You knew you would have to step up.
It was tough, but you two had made it work, and waved goodbye to her with tears in your eyes in August as she boarded the train that would take her to Texas and Danforth. So you had to work seven days a week to cover the tuition payments and all the bills at home. That was well worth the cost of watching your baby sister soar.
The alarm on your phone beeps, jolting you out of your thoughts. Fifteen minutes were up; time to get back to work.
2pm
The door chimes, and just like clockwork, Vert and his ragtag friends pour into the diner, already chattering away with each other.
They’re a welcome sight for a number of reasons. The lunch rush had come and gone already, leaving Zeke’s dead and boredom-inducing until they come in. You get to chat with people your age, something that was embarrassingly rare for you. And they always tipped well.
They squish into the biggest booth in the diner, and you make your way around the counter. You don’t bother bringing any menus over - even the newest additions to their little group had come here often enough to have everything memorized.
Vert smiles as soon as you walk over. “Hey Grace, what’s going on?”
“Same old, same old. You?”
“Ah, y’know. Nothing out of this world,” he smiles as he says it - the sort of one often accompanying an inside joke.
“You guys ready to order, or do you need a little more time to think about it? ”
“We come here every day. We often order the exact same things. Do you really need to waste oxygen asking that question?” Tezz speaks in his typical disinterested tone - even though he was the one to pose the question in the first place.
The you of about three months ago would have faltered, stammered a bit, and wondered if Vert would mind if you told his friend that he was being a bit of an asshole. But at this point you are more than familiar with Tezz’s Tezz-isms, so you pay it no mind.
“Knock it off; she’s just being nice,” Vert chides.
“Ignore him, Grace,” interjects Stanford, “Rest assured that I appreciate your thoughtfulness immensely.”
“Thanks, Stanford,” you give him a small smile, “Now - “ you hold up your small notepad, “What's everyone getting?”
There was a bit of truth to Tezz’s statement. You probably could have guessed everyone’s order before anyone said anything. Pizza for everyone except Sherman, who orders his club sandwich with extra pickles.A milkshake for AJ, and pop for everyone else -with Stanford and Agura preferring diet.
You disappear to the kitchen to hand Sam their order, start the coffee and head over to the drink station and start filling cups. Now that you’re just behind the counter, you can usually follow along with the conversation.
Not that you’d ever intentionally eavesdrop.
But all of them talk really loud, so it's kind of hard not too.
“Ok ok. I gotta question,” AJ starts. He’s only been here for a few weeks - maybe almost a month now? He’s a bit like a golden retriever in the body of a dude. You like him. “Who do you think would win in a fight? Ze-” You’re not looking, but you’re pretty sure someone elbowed him. “I mean, an evil robot or an evil talking alien lion?”
“What's the setting? An ice world? A jungle?” Agura questions.
“Pretend it's just like a normal boxing ring, and they both just happen to be there ready to fight.”
“ I think Kal- I mean, the evil talking alien lion wins,” Zoom says, “ Like, in a pure brawl, he has the strength advantage, y’know?”
“He’s punching evil steel, though. That’s gotta do a number on your hands!” Spinner points out.
Vert shrugs. “You’d be surprised.”
“After running the calculations, I think the victory belongs to the evil alien robot. While they may be lacking the strength the evil alien lion possesses, the ability to self-repair and not being held back by simply running out of stamina gives him the edge,” Tezz replies thoughtfully.
“The lion’s society puts emphasis on mastering hand-to-hand combat, and the robot is more reliant on his vehicle and minions, so I’m gonna give this to the lion,” Agura says. “Hypothetically. Of course.”
“Would evil aliens even understand the rules of boxing?” Stanford muses. “Would they know what they’re supposed to do if they get thrown in the ring?”
There’s a loud noise as a set of red plastic trays get dropped on the counter. “Oh! That question actually gets answered in an episode of Vlador’s Quest!” exclaims Zeke, having just emerged from the kitchen. “Vlador needs to refuel his spaceship, so he lands on a planet that - little does he know - belongs to the Worldspanning Wrestling Entertainment Corporation! So when he…”
You don’t need to look up to know that about half of their little ragtag group are rolling their eyes and holding back sighs. This was not the first conversation of theirs derailed by a dramatic retelling of a Vlador’s Quest episode. But Vert and his friends are good people, so they let him get through his long-winded ramble without voicing any complaints.
3:10pm
“And this,” Stanford flourishes a ten dollar bill, placing it into her hands, “Is for being a fabulous waitress, as always.”
“Thanks, Stanford, I appreciate it.”
“No need, no need. Say, did you do something different with your hair today? You look radiant.”
“You know I never do anything different with my hair.”
“Oh, forgive me, you’re right. I’m just surprised by your effortless beauty each time I see you,” you roll your eyes at the pickup line which is absolutely dripping with cheese, but you smile in spite of yourself.
“I’ve got to go join the others now, love, but I’ll see you tomorrow,” you bid him your goodbye in turn and set to work gathering all the dirty dishes off the table.
“Hey, Grace, you got a second?”
You look up, surprised. “Vert? What are you still doing here?”
The blond was standing next to you, an arm propped up on a booth as he leaned against it. “I was just hoping to chat. That cool?” This was a rare occurrence nowadays. Vert was usually throwing cash at the table and running out the door at highspeed after his watch starts beeping.
“Always,” you respond.
You both take a seat in a cleaner booth.
“First of all, I wanted to check to make sure that Stanford isn’t bothering you,” Vert says, his expression taking an unusual-for-him serious turn. “Because if he is, I’ll tell him to knock it off.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. He doesn’t bother me.’
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Stanford’s a saint compared to some of the truckers that stop in here,” you joke.
Vert frowns “Grace-”
“I know I can call you to come kick someone’s ass if I need,” you interrupt him, “But it's nothing I can’t handle.” Plus, if you flirt back a little, they often triple your usual tip.
Perhaps it's a bit unethical - toying with the affections of customers like that. Especially when you’re not quite sure how you feel about men in general. But every twenty from a guy you’ve spent the past hour buttering up is a twenty towards Hope’s school expenses or bills or groceries or just general peace of mind. For you, that was worth any demerit points received at the pearly gates.
“If you say so,” he tells you,
“How's Spectra Motors treating you?”
“Oh, it’s going. Stressful at points, leading the team. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” he says. “Can’t trade it. I’m contractually obligated to stay, I think.”
“Obligated to stay, sure. That doesn’t mean you can’t take a break or a vacation every once in a while.”
Vert cracks a smile. “How about this: I’ll take a day off when you take a day off.”
“Oooh, I think you’ll be waiting a bit then.”
“How longs a bit?”
“...A couple years?”
He laughs. “Sounds like a reasonable, humane amount of time to work before a break,” the sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, “I’m sure we wouldn’t die or pass out from stress before that happens.”
“Hey, speak for yourself. I’ve been doing this for two years already.”
“Fair enough,” Vert puts his hands up, “And honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Neither do I somedays.”
“Hey, at least there's a light at the end of the tunnel now.” You give him a confused look. “I mean, isn’t Hope halfway done highschool?” he elaborates.
“Oh, uh, yeah. But there’s university after that, maybe a graduate or a master's program depending on what she wants to do.”
“That could very well be covered with student loans and scholarship money,” Vert points out, “You might not have to work such a gruelling schedule anymore.”
“I… yeah, I suppose that's true.” You honestly hadn’t thought about it, but he wasn’t wrong.
“What would you do with your free time? Finally go to culinary school?”
You shrug helplessly, your mind spinning with this sudden realization. “Vert, I’m barely planning for tomorrow, let alone two years from now,” you do your best to maintain a joking tone.
Vert laughs, so you suppose it works. “That’s the strategy I used all four years of high school, so I can’t fault you for that.”
Maybe there would’ve been more conversation, but it's cut short by Vert’s watch sounding a familiar alarm. He looks down at his wrist, then back up at you, sheepishly. This is not be the first time a catchup session had been cut short in such a manner.
“Grace I-”
You wave him off. “Just get out of here already.”
“I’ll make it up to you!” he calls over his shoulder as he gets out of the booth and races out of the diner.
“I’ll see you tomorrow!” you call after him.
The diner is silent once again. There is a weight on your shoulders that wasn’t there before as you clean up the booth.
4pm
Jonathan, Zeke’s great-nephew comes in at four Fridays through Sundays. He’s a year younger then Hope, and started working as a server at the restaurant to make some extra cash. Nice kid, and it’s a blessing to have someone else at the diner for the weekend dinner rush.
You smile and wave at him as he walks in, although the pleasantness doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
Vert's words bounce in your head, over and over again. ‘What will you do with your free time?’ ‘Only two more years’ ‘What will you do with your free time?’ What will you do?
When all you have to distract you at the moment is the monotony of dishwashing, it’s impossible to pull your head out of your thoughts.
6:30pm
The dinner rush starts. It’s a busy night; nearly every table in the whole restaurant is filled, which is a small blessing after such a quiet week.
Truth be told, you run on autopilot. Everything gets done, and everyone gets served, sure. But the chipperness to your customer service voice isn’t quite there. It take you a few minutes longers to make milkshakes you can normally serve in two minutes or less. There’s a trucker you could have gotten a decent tip out of if you’d batted your eyelashes and giggled at his shitty jokes. There’s a road tripper with flawless makeup and deep red hair that falls past her shoulders that you would’ve enjoyed flirting with if you’re head didn’t feel like it was full of radio static.
So, so much static.
9pm
Zeke’s Diner closes at 9pm on the dot. Normally you’d be there for another half hour to an hour, doing final cleanup and balancing the til. But Jonathan and Zeke take care of it on the night the kid works, which means you are free to go home.
You wave goodbye to the guys and get into your car. The visor comes off; the ponytail comes down. Normally you stick your playlist on and drive home listening to Megan Thee Stallion or Carrie Underwood or Ariana Grande or something like that, but tonight you think you just want the quiet.
9:20pm
You pull into your driveway. You enter your house as quietly as possible, knowing your mom has probably already gone to bed, tired out from whatever sewing she’d managed to get her hands to cooperate with.
You kick off your shoes and trudge into the bathroom. Take a shower, towel dry your hair, cleanse and then moisturize your face, brush your teeth, head into your room and change into pajamas.
10:35pm
You’re lying on your pastel pink bedsheets, staring up at the ceiling.
‘What will you do with your free time?’ Vert’s voice asks in your head for the two hundredth time today.
You don’t know. You’ve realized that today. You don’t know what you would do.
And that's terrifying.
You don’t want to work seven days a week. No one in their right mind wants to work seven god damn days a week. You get off at five twice a week, and the rest of the time you’re in just after dawn, and you’re out after dark. And even working all these hours, you and your mom are barely making ends meet.
But this is all you’ve known. You’ve worked at Zeke’s for half a decade, and spent just about every day of your life there for a little over two years. And every second is worth it - Hope is worth it - but that doesn’t mean you necessarily love every moment too.
Zeke is well-meaning, and you appreciate everything he has done for you, but just by nature of his personality and obsession with aliens, he can be a lot to deal with some days. Sam is nice but prefers to keep to himself in the kitchen. Most people in town are friendly, but sometimes the gossipier folks grind your gears, and sometimes the people who stop in from out of town wouldn’t know manners if it hit them square in the face.
Most days it's fine. Somedays it's even better than fine - usually when Vert and his crew hang around for longer than normal, or you get a free seat to the monthly comedy night that Zeke hosts. Some days it sucks.
And most days, even if you try to ignore it, are tiring.
You are so, so tired.
So two days off a week sound magical. Wonderful. You’d spent the first few weeks sleeping for 48 hours straight, you’d imagine. But what about the weeks after that?
The thing about working constantly is that you don’t really have time for hobbies. Sure, sometimes you’ll watch trashy reality tv shows before you head to bed, but that’s not a hobby. The joy that can bring you is limited.
You liked to bake when you were younger. Vert was spot on when he suggested culinary school - that's what preteen you had always imagined, before Danforth Academy came into the picture for your sister. But does it count as a hobby if you go to school for it, and pursue it as a career?
From what you’ve always understood - a hobby was just something a person did for fun, nothing more. You don’t really have that right now.
And you can’t really picture yourself trying anything out because you have no idea what you like.
Because that's the other thing working constantly deprives you of - time to figure yourself out. You don’t know what your hobbies or interests are. You don’t have time for relationships, so you don’t know your preferences there either. Hell, you know you aren’t straight, but you have no idea what you do identify as. Lesbian? Bisexual or Pansexual? Are you somewhere on the ace spectrum? You know you’re a natural flirt - would you be happy in a monogamous relationship? Would you be happy in a relationship at all? You know you could find out easily enough - you’d been asked out by just about every guy your age in town and a handful of the women too. Stanford had been chasing you since the moment you’d met the man. But, again, you just didn’t have time for a relationship.
You don’t have time for anything.
You let out a long, drawn-out sigh. You close your eyes to prevent the tears that have been building from leaking out.
You feel very hollow. Who are you, really? Who will you be when your life isn’t constant work? Maybe you’ll just work forever, so you never have to venture into that nebulous unknown. Fill up all your time so you never have the chance to wonder Rinse and repeat until you croak.
The thought of that - always working, never relaxing, never knowing yourself - aches in a different way.
The sound of a car engine revving jolts you out of your thought. You sit upright on your bed and peer out your window. Racing out into the desert were five distinctive vehicles, so brightly coloured you could still make them out despite the darkness outside.
The sight brings a soft smile to your lips.
You don’t know a lot of things, that was true.
But you did know that you could go to sleep easy knowing the world was safe from extraterrestrial threats thanks to Vert and his friends.
You also knew that they had no idea you knew. They probably thought they’d kept all the details tightly under wraps. But Vert had never been able to hide something from you for long, and they had all talked about battle plans a smidge too loudly one too many times in the diner.
That was okay, though. You had their backs, even if they themselves didn’t realize it. You conveniently interrupted their conversations whenever the volume was getting worrying by walking over to their table to see if they needed anything. You kept Zeke from prying too deep into their business and soothed Sherrif Johnson’s concerns whenever they spring up.
You were uncertain about many things, but the thought that you were helping in some bigger cause - even if it was just in some minuscule way, calmed you down.
You take a deep breath. Maybe you’d take Vert up on his offer. Zeke wouldn’t mind manning the diner alone for a day, and the two of you could get some much-needed rest and relaxation. Maybe dip your toes into the waters of a potential hobby, together.
That didn’t sound so bad.
You resolve to talk to them both in the morning.
For now, you crawl under your pink blanket and drift off to sleep.