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Emma Perkins had very few customers anymore. Most of the time everyone would go to Starbucks to buy coffee or whatever the fuck they drank for ridiculous prices. Those that did still swing around Beanies always had the most incredibly complex type of orders, they were also concerning and should be considered a health hazard. How anybody can take ten shots of espresso daily and still live had to be from out of this world. Or a god.
Then there was Paul Matthews.
The most boringly average kinda, really super fucking hot guy that came in. He always got black coffee, and even after the fucking apocalypse he still gets the same damn thing.
At least something was normal and consistent for her!
Surprisingly it was somewhat (kinda, not really) easy to adapt to the musical apocalypse. Just cause people to go into a flash mob like an embarrassing public proposal. Yeah, you might risk getting infected, but if you run fast enough you'll make it!
That's just how it goes in Hatchetfield now, but hey! It's better than dying fucking Clivesdale of all places! Even though dying in Hatchetfield isn't all that great either.
Like Emma, Paul has been doing well thriving and surviving in the musical apocalypse! His strong hatred for them had to have helped, and the best part about this was that she had someone! Especially someone she could tolerate more than anybody else! Yeah, he couldn't really handle pot very well, but who gave a fuck about that! She had someone, and damn it was amazing to have him.
The door to beanies opened up and Emma reached for the gun she had hidden under the counter, at Zoey's orders, before she became one of those musical alien creatures. She knew there was no need to. There was no hum or anything, and it was the same time Paul had finally made his way in.
“Hi, Emma!” He sounded out of breath, and as he came over to the counter she could see the sweat on his brow and slightly shaky hand.
“Shit man, is your fucking skeleton going to hatch out of you?” She jokes, grabbing a paper cup and slipping it into another one.
“I wish,” Paul replies. “Fucking flash mob chased me for what feels like miles. I had to hide in that department store up the street!”
Emma looks over at the clock. “And you're still on time. Did you try to come earlier?” She asks.
Paul nods as he fiddles with his tie. “Yeah, I wanted to see you,” he says sheepishly, looking down as his cheeks go bright red.
“You always want to see me,” Emma tells him, setting the cup down and resting her elbows on the counter. “Because you like me!” She teases.
“Who wouldn't like your company?” He asks.
“Name one person,” She deadpans, as he searches for names. None came up. “But hey! I don't mind you, you don't mind me. A perfect match!” She says resting her head on her hands.
“Perfect match,” he parrots back quietly. Paul hides the growing smile, surprisingly better than Emma thought. She barely misses it, it's something she wants to see more of. Emma will never admit this, especially now since most people in her life are dead, but Paul Matthews makes her heart soar and beat.
Emma never imagined a world where the fucking apocalypse would bring her together with somebody she saw a future with. Or, just in general. She was perfectly content with being the single wine aunt who came and spoiled Tim during the holidays before retreating to Guatemala.
“Oh fuck, your Coffee,”
Paul can see Emma's mind flip back to work. He didn't even realize she hadn't even gotten to it. It's not it'll take her long like it did for Ted's order, and his small, constantly changing requests. Not like the barista had to worry about it anyway. He was dead! Not in the musical zombie way, at least Paul thinks that. He doesn't pay attention to those around him too much.
After running into an infected Richie, thinking he was alive, Paul doesn't take much of a long glance at anybody. Just going on with his apocalypse life trying to avoid as many people as possible. Except for Emma of course, it's very hard to ignore what his heart wants, and he's been told countless times his heart is what would get him killed.
In a way, it did, but it's something he doesn't want to think about much. It brings the ache back.
“Oh, you don't have to worry about it,” Paul says, dropping his five-dollar bill in.
“Nope! Already on it!” Emma tells him, pouring the coffee into the cups. “Plus I don't want to get fired,” she says gesturing over to the back. Faintly Paul can hear muffled groaning.
“Did you tie your other co-worker up?” Paul asks.
“Now what gives you that idea?” Emma asks, shoving the blood-covered pan left on the counter out of sight, behind the pastry box that's filled with day-old pastries passed off as fresh ones.
“Hunch,” he grins. Emma's smile grows as she tops his coffee off and sets the pot back.
“Well, I'm not going to confirm or deny your answer.” She tells him, grabbing his coffee. “You want me to spit in it?”
“Have you been spitting in people's coffee?” He asks.
“Nah, mostly been using a broom as a weapon. I feel like a cartoon character.” She says, setting the coffee down. “Like those ladies who chase cats out with them.”
“Okay, yeah, okay,” Paul nods. “Sure, whatever works.”
“Anything to keep going.” She says, turning around and grabbing a lid.
“Oh yeah, I totally get what you mean. I had to fight the security guard at work a few days ago. That old man knew how to pack a punch.” he cringes at the memory of getting punched in the gut and having to send a mop snapped in two into the man's chest.
“Do you really, Paul?” Emma asks, back still turned to him.
He blinks, the groaning from the back has stopped. His gaze shifts back to the pan Emma grabbed, dragging it back into sight. A red trail follows it.
“Emma?” Paul says quietly.
She slowly turns around, blue slime dripping from her mouth and nose like blood. “How dead is he?”
“Last I saw, singing a very breathy version of Frank Sinatra,” Paul replies. “You really should have seen it, Em, scrawny tall Paul Matthews taking down the former security guard.”
“An interesting choice,” Emma says, looking down at the bloodied pan. “Why not ABBA? As far as I'm concerned there's a whole fucking musical with it as the soundtrack.” She opens the small door, letting Paul in.
“Guess he just had a song in his heart,” he replies, grabbing a large knife. “And I think everybody should find the song in their heart too.”