Chapter Text
Jason’s halfway through restocking the shop’s supplies when Tim swings into the backroom and hisses, “Bruce Wayne is in our fucking line.”
It’s 9 o’clock on a Thursday. Jason’s shift started an hour ago. It’s only him and Tim in the shop and Jason knows from experience the morning rush does not allow this kind of gossip break. Hell, he’s only out back because Tim hates restocking for some reason. If Jason goes fast enough to viably put the milk away last, he can get away with not showing his face for half an hour.
“So?” he says, hands half-full of cleaning supplies.
“So,” Tim says, voice still bordering a hiss as he walks into the backroom. Jason can only imagine what kind of impatience is unfolding outside. “You serve him.”
“What? Fuck no.” Jason tries to snatch back the products Tim’s already unloading from his hands but it’s difficult. “Why the hell can’t you serve him?”
“‘Cause,” Tim says as he angrily puts dish soap away. “It’s your turn.”
“What?” Jason says again. He pulls a face of bewilderment, stares at Tim’s back before glancing towards the doorway. From the line, he can already hear some impatient fuck ringing the service bell.
Tim doesn’t turn, simply moves on to putting cups away as Jason watches. “It’s your turn. He came in yesterday and wouldn’t get off his phone. I don’t want to decode what kind of full-cream soy piccolo he wants.”
Jason pulls a face of disgust. “No way.” He turns himself, starts to pick up the plastic lids. He moves to put them away, but Tim just sits down between the cramped shelves and crosses his arms. Jason scoffs. “You’re kidding.”
Tim stays there, stares headlong at their shitty caramel syrup collection. “If you don’t go serve, I’m going to have a breakdown in the middle of the store.”
Jason snorts again, continues shelving the lids. “Go for it.” Hopefully, if they duke it out long enough the prick ringing the bell will get the hint and leave.
Jason turns to pick up their biodegradable spoons and continue his original task as Tim glares. He’s sitting there like a rock. Jason bets they’ve gotten at least one bad review by now. “Jason—” Tim finally looks up. “If you don’t go serve, I’m going to bribe Barbs and get you on closes for the next month.”
Jason’s eyes slide to him as he sighs. “Shit, is it that serious?” He chucks the lids at Tim’s head, grabbing his apron off the hook and tying it. Mutters as he walks toward the doorway, “If you don’t come out in ten minutes, I’m walking out.”
Tim snorts and Jason plasters on a smile.
There is, predictably, a huge line up. Big enough that Jason can’t discern if Bruce Wayne’s within it or not.
The guy at the front is easy to figure out though. If he rings the bell one more time Jason leaving will be the least of their worries. “Hi, sorry about the wait,” he says as he walks to the register. “How can I help today?”
Mr prissy glares at him and Jason lets his eyes drift to the rest of the line then back. “Sorry, can I grab you anything?”
“Cappuccino.”
Jason smiles, eyes dropping to the register. Starting the order even as he says, “Perfect. And what size would you like that one?”
“Large.”
“No problem.” Jason flicks his eyes up once, already looking down to grab a cup and pen as he says, “Would you like to add anything else today?” The guy grunts noncommittally but Jason’s more than happy to move on. “And what name was that one?”
“Ben.”
Jason nods, spelling out Fen in block letters. “Of course.” He clicks the epos as he places the cup on the other bench. “When you’re ready.” The machine beeps. “Were you after your receipt—” he walks off and Jason bins the slip of paper.
Already saying around another smile as the next girl steps forward, “Hi, how are you today?”
Jason continues serving with half a mind. Switching between ringing customers up and actually making the coffees casually. It’s a while before the crowd thins out enough to spot Bruce Wayne.
Nothing so dramatic even happens despite Jason’s expectation. He doesn’t even order anything annoying, which makes Jason think maybe Tim was about to have a breakdown earlier. Jason puts through his cappuccino and Wayne goes to stand off to the side where another customer is already lingering on their phone. Jason doesn’t glance at the rest of their (still long) line up as he spins and walks into the back again.
Tim hasn’t even put anything else away except the lids, the complete shit. “Time’s up,” Jason says, and Tim glances over from his spot on the floor. It hasn’t been a full ten minutes, but Tim doesn’t seem to realize, or probably doesn’t actually care.
He sighs and drags himself upright. Perks up hopefully as he asks, “Is he gone?”
“Yep,” Jason lies. “So, hurry up.” He sends him a look of absolute judgment and Tim doesn’t manage to pull one back before Jason turns and wanders out to serve again, leaving Tim to handle the two yet unmade coffee orders.
Jason only pays half attention to the customer at the front, punching through the order without looking. Half goes to Tim, so he notices when he walks out far enough to spy the waiting customers and goes bright red in a way that suggests if he’d notice Wayne earlier, he absolutely wouldn’t have made it this far. As it is, he sends Jason a vicious look as he grabs the first cup, and seemingly doubtful that does an appropriate job, leans over to hiss, “I will kill you,” before turning to the coffee machine.
“Hi,” Jason says to the next customer.
Nothing happens when Tim calls out Wayne’s name, but Wayne does send him part of the blinding smile he’d sent Jason earlier. He doesn’t seem overly fussed at the near cold shoulder Tim’s leveling him.
By the time the two of them have cleared out the rest of the store, Tim’s blush has died down, but Jason definitely hasn’t forgotten its existence. “So…” Jason starts, and Tim practically beats the coffee machine to death in his haste to clean it.
This is the kind of shit Jason’s glad management never sees, because the fucking asshole has shoved everything back into a neat order and pissed off before he can continue. Jason rolls his eyes and shoves the receipts lying around in the bin before grabbing the broom.
He goes through the final touches lazily. And by the time he wanders into the backroom, Tim is sitting on the floor between shelves, keeping the syrups company.
He has gone so far as to put the milk away—Jason slides the fridge opened and sighs. Kinda—and to unearth a prepackaged cookie from the bulk box. He glances up when Jason slides the fridge shut and fuck sake, he did not need to go to such lengths to appear caught out.
They consider each other. Tim breaks first. “I need you to be my referee.”
Jason picks up a bag of cups and hurls it at Tim’s head. Says as Tim catches it with his face and it balances on the slope of his shoulder, “You are not allowed to quit, asshole.”
Tim pouts, looking sad and mistreated. He takes a ginger bite of his cookie, and the bag of cups topple to the ground. “Please.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jason says and grabs another bag of cups. “Put me down. I’ll be a great referee. Please pin all your future ambitions on me.” He throws the cups. “I would fucking kill that.”
Tim scowls this time. “Stop throwing shit at me, I’ll report you to HR.”
Jason sends him an incredulous look. If Tim can figure out how to report him to HR, first of all, Jason’s gonna rejoice at the how-to guide. He’s pretty sure the closest this place has ever gotten to a human resource department is Dick Grayson. “You do that, Timmers, right after you get your ass up and put this fucking shit away.”
The bell sounds and Tim practically vaults himself upright. He spins on his way out just to flip Jason off and God fucking dammit Jason’s too fond to be mad at him. Tim’s left his half-eaten cookie balanced on the bulk soap refill. Jason starts sorting the rest of the boxes out.
The bell rings a couple more times and Jason’s finishing by the time Tim wanders back through. He’s holding two cups carefully and he shuffles to offer Jason one.
Jason sighs at him but takes it. It’s a double cupped peppermint tea with the remnants of a single melting ice-cube floating on top, and fondness bubbles through Jason’s chest. Tim pinches his half-eaten cookie from the soap and swallows it whole before wandering over to an upturned milk crate and kicking it over. He sits. Jason rolls his eyes.
“You can do inventory,” Jason says. He sips his tea absently. It’s the perfect temperature.
“Mh-hmm,” Tim responses through his coffee cup, phone already in hand, large takeaway cup hiding the full lower half of his face. Jason wanders over to kick him in the foot. “Mh-hmm.” Jason kicks him more insistently.
The bell rings. Tim’s eyes roll up and get all squinty in amusement. Jason scowls. “Fuck you,” Jason tells him and turns to leave the room. “Count shit!” He discards his tea on the nearest bench. “I fucking mean it.”
“Mh-hmm.”
There’s an elderly couple making their way to the counter. Jason takes his time serving them and proceeds to start cleaning the coffee grounds off the counter ten times, interrupted by more customers wandering in. Finally, he manages it, and eyes the surrounding tables before wandering around the counter to wipe those down too.
The bell rings. Jason looks up to a small group wandering in. Jason stacks a couple empty cups and turns to holler for Tim, ambience be fucking damned, just as the Tim in question pokes his head out.
Tim continues through to the counter once he takes stock and Jason finishes clearing the tables. The group moves outside, and Jason wanders back around. Tim’s cleaning the bench he just cleaned eleven times. The bell rings.
Dick rushes in. “Are you okay?” He freezes just before the register as if to check them over and Jason exchanges a surprised glance with Tim. Tim’s surprise gives way to a moderately guilty expression and Jason’s lips inch up.
“You’re so mean.” Tim pulls a face of offence and Jason turns to Dick as Tim’s gearing up to defend himself. “We’re fine. Sit down, I’ll make you a drink.”
Dick turns a suspicious gaze on Jason, because of course he does. Un-fucking-believable. Tim’s hissing, “You were threating me! I didn’t think he’d come in early.”
Jason sends Tim another look and he deflates. “With paper cups.” Honestly, the threat of resignation was the most prominent in the room, and Jason didn’t go dobbing. Jason turns back to Dick, who’s still struggling to grasp the situation. “We’re fine,” Jason repeats. “Tim’s just a dramatic leech that can con you with both hands behind his back.”
“Oh.” Dick thinks this over and accepts it without complaint or further question. “Ok.” Note: this is who Tim thought would ignore his overdramatic complaints.
Jason sends Tim another look. Tim sulks as he grabs the broom and wanders past. Dick ruffles his hair as soon as he’s in arm’s reach. “How’s this morning been?” Dick asks as Tim dodges through, hopefully to actually sweep something.
Jason scowls at him. “Sit the fuck down, Dick.”
Dick’s lips twitch up and sensing Jason’s good favour turning on him, decides to push his luck. He surveys the customers in the room viper quick—three high school kids huddled around their phones in a corner table—before swinging himself onto the counter to sit. “Can you make me a vanilla hot chocolate?” he asks, sweet as the smirk on his lips. He swings his legs towards Jason for good measure.
“Get fucked,” Jason says automatically. Then, “You’ll get what you’re fucking given.” He turns and starts pulling out the ingredients for some version of hot chocolate Dick will approve of anyway and Dick hums to himself, pleased.
Tim wanders back with his broom in tow. Jason eyes him doubtfully. Tim ignores this. Jason asks over the sound of steaming milk, “Did you know that Timmy has a one-sided vendetta against Bruce Wayne?”
Dick’s head chants sideways like a curious owl and Tim makes a startled sound of injury like a cat that’s had its tail trod on. The broom clutters to the side. “Wha—Jason!”
Jason finishes steaming the milk. “Do you not?”
“No!”
Jason meets Dick’s eyes again and shakes his head silently. Dick’s lips quirk up as Tim makes another frazzled noise of protest. Jason leans down in search of their cinnamon, riffling through their contraband supply cupboard and firmly ignoring the marshmallow syrup Dick must’ve snuck in. “Wait,” Dick says. Jason looks over to him frowning quizzically. “How do you know this?” He looks between them slowly. “Was Bruce Wayne… here?”
It sounds like such an unbelievable notion coming out of Dick’s mouth, Jason almost thinks he hallucinated his appearance this morning. Dick goes on to eye their coffee machine doubtfully, like it’s a vessel of disgrace and not their entire business model. “Wait,” Dick says again, frowning harder.
Jason emerges with the cinnamon. The bell rings and Dick’s on his feet immediately, sliding off the counter to stand behind the register with Jason and Tim. It’s just some teenagers leaving and Dick huffs as he glances over his shoulder. He leans back on the bench, crossing his arms. “How the hell do you know Bruce Wayne?”
Jason turns to survey Tim’s response, because honestly, he wants to know too. Tim scowls between them and doesn’t answer.
Jason puts the finishing touches on Dick’s hot chocolate, including half a pump of vanilla syrup, and passes it over. Dick takes it, sends him such a dopey smile Jason immediately regrets every decision that led to this moment: passing the drink over instead of unending it on Dick’s head. “Thanks, Jay.”
Jason bites back under his breath, “You shouldn’t even be here, moron.”
Somehow, Dick manages to add more sincerity to his voice. “You’re the best.” Jason cleans the coffee machine for the umpteenth time today and elbows Dick in the gut on his way. Dick doesn’t even move, the regular brick wall, smile unrelenting.
“He was my neighbour as a kid,” Tim finally answers. He leans over to righten the broom and Jason opens his mouth to comment on this information—Dick elbows him in the gut.
“Ow, fucker!” Jason shoves him back, and Dick keeps balance of his cup like he expected this, but Tim straightens to hover in place sheepishly, so it probably was a fair call. Jason waits, rubbing his side irritably.
Tim grimaces at them, glances away then back again. “I guess, technically… he fostered me for a bit,” Tim struggles through awkwardly, every syllable fighting doubt and reservation, like this is something that can be held against him. Jason and Dick exchange a loaded glance.
The bell rings. Jason’s first conscious thought is that he should’ve poisoned Bruce Wayne when he had the chance. Dick turns around to greet the couple walking to the counter, no mind he’s a) not in full uniform and b) not on the fucking clock yet. Jason means to say something about that, but what comes out is a harsh, “Was he an asshole?”
“No! He was—Bruce is fine,” Tim reassures in a rush, hands upheld like he doesn’t know what to do with them but needs to do something. It’s the quickness of his response more than anything that has Jason relaxing. Tim’s not a bad liar, per se, but he’s fucking calculated and this conversation has been anything but.
“Hmm.” Dick finishes ringing up the customers, turning to hand Jason three cups. Jason takes them, looks his scribbles over absently. He meets Dick’s gaze to mention, “False alarm, Dickie.”
The crease between Dick’s brow smooths out as he smiles, amused. Tim bristles at their side, making a face Jason turns away from to start on the latest orders. “What were you going to do if I said no? Storm Wayne Manor?”
Jason lets the milk scream obnoxiously for a whole two seconds in answer. Dick bubbles through his smile, “Could be fun.” Frankly, Jason would’ve encouraged the opportunity to see Dick go nuclear.
More pointedly, there is definitely enough space for poison in their contraband supply cupboard. Jason wouldn’t even need to move the marshmallow syrup, though he would, straight to the fucking bin.
Tim must sense an approximation of this in their resolve, because he sighs. Stands there aimlessly for a second, no brooms left to straighten. Eventually, he murmurs, “Please don’t storm Wayne Manor.”
Dick cocks his chin curiously. “Is it actually a manor? What does that even mean?” Jason’s lips curl up at that neat non-answer, pressing the lids down finally. “Does he actually own peacocks?”
Tim makes another face. “What? No.”
Dick frowns, seemingly taking a second to comprehend this. Jason snorts as he brushes past, walking over to the seated couple. “The cappuccino?”
The first woman smiles. Jason moves to put it down in her vicinity as she says, “Thank you.”
“And the mocha on oat and the latte on lactose-free,” Jason lists, placing each down in turn. The second woman takes the latte and moves the mocha to the yet empty seat.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Jason wanders back to Dick and Tim in the midst of heated conversation. Dick’s saying, “It just seems like a misuse of resources not to have peacocks.”
The wind must’ve turned outside, because Tim’s still pulling the same face he was two minutes ago. Jason leans back on the counter and crosses his arms, amused. “A misuse of resources? Dick, please—” Tim practically begs.
“Well, isn’t it? It’s like a quintessential rich person thing. Private jets. Exotic fruit,” Dick lists. “Peacocks.”
Tim is starting to look genuinely stressed. Jason is hoping to God no one wanders in and interrupts this discussion. “What are you basing this off?” Then, “Exotic fruit?”
“The Gazette,” Dick says, tone boarding duh levels of judgment. The two frown at each other. Dick sweeps his gaze to Jason. “Jay,” he says.
Tim turns to him too, aiming a look loaded with threat. Jason nearly rolls his eyes, as if Tim’s ever caught Jason dead defending the integrity of rich people. “They have to own peacocks,” Jason agrees.
“Why?” Tim asks, close to despair. He’s so easy to wind up sometimes.
“Y’know,” Jason defends lazily. “It’s like a metaphor.”
Tim blinks at him in bewilderment and Dick turns to straighten their straw holder, losing the contest of hiding his smile, and subsequently, starts straightening the individual straws. “A metaphor,” Tim echoes blankly.
“Yeah.” Jason waits until the crease in Tim’s brow comes back and grows a new ecosystem of wrinkles before adding, “For being rich.”
Tim collapses criss-cross-applesauce where he’d been standing and buries his face in his hands. “I hate you,” he mumbles.
“It’s okay to admit you’re wrong, Timmers.” Tim deflates more so, and Dick’s shoulders start shaking with silent laughter.
Dick’s laughter must transcend sound, because Tim adds through his hands, “Both of you. So much.”
Dick lets out a single windchime laugh before flouncing over to sit next to Tim on the floor, drapes him in an approximation of a hug. The bell rings. Jason eyes the pair critically before walking around them to the counter. “Hey, how ya doin’?” he asks the approaching customers.
Tim mumbles behind him, “I’m taking my break.”
“…Here?” Dick checks.
“Yes.”
Dick makes a note of sympathy that kickstarts Jason’s fight or flight instincts. He firmly ignores them, and once the customers get close enough to notice the pair, ignores their looks. “What can I get you?” Jason asks blandly, intent to hurry this whole situation up.
The women luckily just exchange amused smiles before ringing off their order, paying and making their way to a table. Jason sighs at their cups. “Please get off the floor.”
Dick’s watching him from where he’s balanced on Tim’s shoulders, and he offers a smile when he notices Jason glancing back. “Technically,” Dick says agreeably while being anything but, “We’re not working right now.”
Jason does not get paid enough to deal with this. He walks back around them to the coffee machine, attempting to erase this from his consciousness and only manages to dissociate the whole way through the coffee making. He eyes the finished coffees but there’s unfortunately no way to know he made them correctly. Although.
Jason turns to Dick’s unblinking gaze, still octopused around Tim, who’s probably managed to fall asleep in the pose of an aggrieved preschooler. “Did I put caramel syrup in these?”
Dick offers a lopsided smile. “Yeah, Jay.”
Jason nods, refuses to verify which milk was used, and walks towards the tables to save both dignity and sanity. He studies his scribbles as he walks, offers as he closes in and they glance over, “The caramel cappuccino on oat and caramel latte on full cream.” He places them down in front of their respective owners, managing to remember that much.
They thank him in tandem. Jason’s really hoping he got the milk right.
Jason cleans the coffee machine. The bell rings and Jason glances over to Duke walking in. He waves at Jason and Jason grins. “Hey, Jason,” Duke greets, shuffling his school bag from his shoulders as he walks behind the counter. He offers his fist as he passes, which Jason bumps.
He does not question why Tim and Dick are on the floor. He unzips his bag one handed, wrangling his apron and work shirt free as he says, “Hey, Tim.”
Tim garbles a response and Dick pouts. Duke wanders into the backroom before anything more can come of this interaction and Jason considers Dick with glee. Dick, if anything, appears to get sadder. “What did I do?” he asks, holding Tim like an emotional support bear.
Tim must sense the shift too because he squirms free of Dick’s arms and flops down onto his back like a corpse, blinking eerily at the moth ridden overhead lights. Dick lets out a full breath, straightening in place but not rising from the floor. “Jay,” Dick complains sadly.
Jason considers him at length. The bell rings, but the customer sweeps their gaze around the room and beelines to the couple from earlier. Jason looks back to Dick. “Dick,” Jason starts, because there’s really only one reason Duke would give Dick the cold shoulder, “You aren’t meant to be here.”
Dick frowns. Tim flops his arm out to pat his knee twice, but otherwise remains completely still. “I’m glad you’re here, Dick.”
“Thanks, Timmy.”
Tim drops his hand back to the floor and frowns slightly. “How long do I have?”
Dick flips his head back to look at the clock while Jason eyes Tim. “In life?”
Tim frowns harder. “That, too.”
“A bit,” Dick answers dutifully, flipping back around, “Thirteen minutes.”
At the good news, Tim covers his face with both hands and groans. “Jason,” he starts through his palms. “I’ll pay you to kill me.”
“How much?”
Dick rolls his eyes and untwists himself upright. “Fifty bucks,” Tim offers hopefully.
Jason sends him a look of disbelief. “That wouldn’t even cover the expenses, Timberlina, c’mon.”
“Sixty?” Tim raises.
Jason sends his look of disbelief to Dick. “Can you believe him?”
“Truly shocking,” Dick agrees dryly. He huffs again, nudges Tim in the side with his foot. “How much coffee have you had today?”
Tim heaves himself upright to glare between them. “Three cups.”
Jason scoffs and immediately regrets it when Dick turns to him. He scowls, crosses his arms. “I’m not his keeper.” Dick increases his stare to a Look and Jason glares at him, most upset that he knows. “Four and a half. Maybe.” Then, when Tim relaxes, “After eight when I got here.”
“Alrighty.” Dick nods decisively. “Let’s round that up to seven. You’re on decaf, buddy,” he tells Tim.
Tim makes a mournful note but doesn’t protest this figure. Jason’s gonna go ahead and round it up to nine. “Was this meant to make me feel better?” Tim asks.
“I would’ve made you one,” Dick offers in consolation. Then in afterthought, “Want a decaf?”
Tim draws his knees to his chest and drops his chin to them. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Jason eyebrow quirks. “He literally is.”
Tim scowls harder. “He isn’t clocked in yet. He’s not. I don’t have to listen to him until two.” He declares quietly, “I can do what I want,” still curled into his knees.
Dick and Jason exchange a look Jason’s sad to say is fond.
Duke walks out of the backroom fifteen minutes into his shift start. Jason has restocked their sugar, cutlery, napkins and is about to move on to their chocolate powder to fend off Dick’s slow inching towards, Jason suspects, the marshmallow syrup. Tim, unfortunately, is still on the floor.
“Duke!” Dick exclaims, straightening from his galivanting lean on the bench. He’s still clutching the drink Jason made him in hand. Jason drops down to slide the cabinet open, hefting their bulk chocolate powder onto the counter, beginning to unscrew their shaker collection. “Hey, Duke.”
Duke pauses on the threshold, seemingly taking them in. “Dick,” he returns evenly. “Fancy seeing you here at—” he slides his gaze to the clock. “One-fifteen. Huh.”
Dick’s expression consolidates into another pout. He throws himself into offence immediately. “I missed you.”
Duke doesn’t bite. “You don’t get payed to miss me.” He turns to Jason, who doesn’t stop measuring out the chocolate powder to look over.
“I tried to tell him that.”
“Are you procrastinating something?” Duke questions next. Jason would like to note that from Duke this comes across as concern and not any form of dig.
“What the hell could he be procrastinating?” Jason raises dubiously, rectifying this. “His laundry?”
If possible, Dick pouts harder. He progresses a couple inches to throw his arms around Jason’s shoulders and cling, chin digging in. Jason shifts them over an inch as he reaches for the last shaker, firmly blocking the cupboard below from Dick’s reach. He pushes Dick’s abandoned drink from the edge with a sigh. “Jaaay,” Dick says, not noticing this.
There is no further defence.
“Can I leave?” Jason asks generally, still pouring the chocolate powder.
“No,” corners him on all sides, with varying levels of enthusiasm. Dick follows up, “Why? What’s wrong?”
Jason isn’t looking to encourage Dick’s sociability. He ignores this. “We are frankly far too overstaffed.” He finishes screwing on the shaker lids, lining them up on the counter before tying the bulk chocolate powder.
The pause before Duke speaks is a tangible weight. “Dick isn’t even working and Tim’s dead on the floor.”
Tim goes so far as to grumble something protest-shaped. Jason moves to put the chocolate powder away, shifting under Dick’s added weight. Dick makes a grab for the marshmallow syrup as they dip, and Jason bats his hand away before slamming the cupboard shut. “As said, far too overstaffed.”
Dick relinquishes the point of his chin to lay his head on Jason’s shoulder. “I thought you wanted extra shifts.”
So not Jason’s point. Duke seems to realise the state of their establishment before Jason can chase that thought. Or, more likely, that the state of their establishment is within their customers’ direct line of sight. “Hey Tim,” he starts, “Think you could be dead on the floor in the break room?”
Jason shakes Dick off finally. Stacking the chocolate shakers around the counter strategically as he says, “I did up a couple trays of cookies for you guys. And Timmy’s already done stock count for today.”
“Aww,” Dick coos at them. “Thank you.”
Hook, line, sinker. Tim unfolds from his knees to lay on the floor again. He blinks up at the ceiling, intones blankly, “I hate you. I literally hate you so much.” He drags in a fortifying breath before hefting himself upright and onto his feet for the first time in nearly an hour. He exits to the backroom without another word.
Duke’s shoulders start shaking as Tim passes and he’s laughing by the time he’s gone. Even Dick can’t resist the grin on his lips. Jason rolls his eyes. “I asked him hours ago,” he grouches.
Dick says around the curve of his smile, “You asked because you knew he wouldn’t do it.”
Again, not the point. Duke shakes his head, amusement lingering. He asks, “Is there anything you need me to do?”
Jason sweeps his gaze across the room with a frown. The highschool kids have produced textbooks none of them seem to be studying. “You could… clean the oven, I guess.”
Duke considers this. “Clean the coffee machine?”
“Clean the coffee machine.”
Dick’s still smiling as he shakes his head. “Stop.”
Duke’s already flipping the drip grate as Jason reaches for the spray and wipe. “Stop what?” Duke checks reasonably. “You don’t want me to clean the coffee machine?”
Jason drifts past as Dick sighs, projecting the energy of an easily startled mouse as he circles around customers to wipe down empty tables. No budge.
A couple looks towards him with intent. The trick, Jason’s learnt, is always attack first. “How are you guys doing?” Jason pauses on his way past. Continues closer as if he’d always intended to check. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Yes, actually,” the guy says, sounding so self-important in those two words Jason almost rolls his eyes. The guy glances over the table like there’s an animal carcass front and centre; Jason’s happy to confirm there is not, though it may be preferable. “I just wanted to double check… There’s not sugar in this slice, is there?”
Jason surveys the table. There’s only one slice he could be referring to and Jason holds back a sigh. “This slice?” Jason points, a very tiny part of him contemplating hope.
“Yes.”
“The caramel slice?” Jason checks.
“Yes.”
“The slice you ordered from our dessert menu?”
“I suppose so.”
“That you’ve since eaten half of?”
“Yes,” he says again, seemingly oblivious. He frowns at it. “It’s just my wife’s allergic.”
Jason considers the wife in question, who offers absolutely nothing. “To… caramel?” Jason fills in trailingly.
“To sugar,” the dude answers for her. She nods. “It’s quite serious.”
“I’ll just have to double check,” Jason tells him, beginning to inch backwards.
“If you could. We didn’t think it had any, but it seems very sweet. It really should be more clearly labelled—”
“One sec,” Jason emphasizes and spins on his feet. Luckily, Dick’s still at the counter counting the till. Jason sidles up to him. “Dick.” Dick hums without looking. “I need you to talk to table two.” At this, Dick does look up, brow furrowing. Jason continues, “Sugar allergy ordered the caramel slice.”
Dick frowns more deeply. Duke looks over from wiping the coffee machine down, lips inching up. “Jay—”
“Thanks a bunch,” Jason cuts off with the same amount of bland cheer he’d utilised at said table. He grips his spray and wipe before continuing on, thankfully in the opposite direction.
He finishes clearing the remaining tables in record time, circling back toward Duke, who’s still wiping down the now spotless coffee machine. They watch over the paper cups as Dick chats to the customers. A discussion which seems to involve a great deal of nodding and very little talking on Dick’s part.
Jason circles his cloth across the clean bench absently. Duke mentions, “He’s been trying to cut in for five minutes.” As they watch, Dick opens then closes his mouth. He nods.
Jason says, still circling the cloth slowly, “If Dick offers them a refund, I am leaving and never coming back.” Duke scoffs in amusement. He seems to realise Jason’s seriousness. “I mean it, Duke. You will never see me ever again. Ever.”
In front of them, Dick opens his mouth and manages to say something. His strategy appears to move towards cheerfully steam rolling them. Before their eyes, both customers begin to nod as Dick talks. Duke shakes his head, murmuring ruefully, “It’s the smile. It’s gotta be the smile.”
Jason wipes the bench, eyes fixated on the scene. “This is nauseating.”
“You know,” Duke comments, “I think I’d miss it.” Jason audibly gags.
After much nodding and more smiles, Dick claps his hands together, grins at them before spinning back towards the counter and his audiences’ eyes follow his retreat like eager lions to a ringmaster. At his approach, both Jason and Duke give up all pretense of appearing busy. Dick spares them an exasperated glance. He leans across the counter to dig through the mess under the register.
Jason perks up. “Are we banning them?”
Dick rolls his eyes. He continues shuffling through things blindly. “I’m getting them reward cards.” He leans back, the smile on his lips similarly exasperated, like he at least understands the absurdity he’s managed to pull off. Twice a year, they have to beg people to take said cards in promotion.
Dick fans out two, punching the first coffee of both. Jason watches him stride towards the table again, both customers greeting him like long lost friends. “I need to go,” Jason manages to get out.
Before Duke can do more than huff Tim appears. He pauses on the threshold, studying the clipboard in his hands. He glances up with a frown. “We’re missing three-hundred spoons.”
Jason slaps Duke on the back, sends him his best imitation of the Dick-Grayson-grin. “Break time.”
Duke rolls his eyes, but the still present crinkle gives him away. “Get lost then.” Jason salutes him jauntily before untying his apron and escaping past the squeal of their door chime onto the street.