Work Text:
Mademoiselle ZigZag is a good place to work at. It's got good hours, enough baristas to balance shifts without anyone burning out, a fair enough pay, and a regular crowd of nice if a bit overwhelmed college kids swarming in at different times of day, every day; there's who sits in a corner and studies the whole time, couples on firsts and sometimes even further dates, students who celebrate an exam gone well and others who drown their despair for a failed one in sugar, spice, and everything nice.
There's regular clients and occasional ones, clients who chitchat with the baristas and clients who only speak to place their orders, clients who try new stuff from the menu every time and clients who stick to the things they like.
John's favorite client belongs to the latter category: every day since the first time he set foot in the coffee shop the first week of September last year, the blond astrophysics student with a face that belongs on magazines covers and blue eyes to die for orders a large coffee with oat milk and cinnamon — in which John has seen him dump up to three sugar packets — and a pastry from the fresh ones on display right next to the register.
They have some kind of routine about the pastry, him and John. Every time, the blond student pretends to debate wether to get the pastry or not. Every time, John tells him he should get one, screw the calories, or he could end up missing out on the best sweet he's ever tasted. Every time, the blond student gives him a small smile, just the slightest upward tilt of his lips, says “Don't count on it,” and orders a blueberry muffin, or a cinnamon twist, or a shortbread millionaire shortcake to have with his coffee while he sits at his corner table, the one with the comfy armchair where John always makes sure to leave the softest blanket they have.
John fell desperately in love with him around their tenth encounter, around the tenth time he found himself at the receiving end of that small smile and that baritone voice with a slight drawl.
Since then, John's asked Helen, the manager, to give him as many morning shifts as she can even if he despises waking up early. He's given the guy endless free refills as he studies and got grateful looks and additional tips in response. He's even offered the guy a congratulatory cake pop when he let it slip that he'd aced his finals a few weeks ago. And yet, John still has no idea what the guy's name is.
Curt, John's best friend and favorite coworker, never stops to make fun of him for it.
“How is it possible?” He asked when John first told him. “You're a barista! Part of your job is literally to ask people for their names!”
John argues that it's not his fault, because the first time the blond guy came at the beginning of the year it was busy as hell, everyone was talking loudly and the coffee machines wouldn't stop hissing so when he told John his name for the drink, John didn't hear and just scribbled something on the cup, nodding at him when it was his turn. And now that the guy's a regular, well, John can't possibly tell him “Hey, I know you've been coming here for months and we always chitchat about wether you should give in to your sweet tooth or not but would you please tell me your name? I have no idea what is it.”
It wouldn't make him out as a good barista.
(It wouldn't work very well as a seduction technique either, and that's John's final goal.)
So John calls him Buck, because the guy looks vaguely like this one friend John had in middle school and they called him Buck — he was John's first guy crush, Buck from Manitowoc; much to think about.
The first time John called the guy that he did it in passing, but he looked at John with a glint of amusement in his eyes and asked, “You're giving me your name?”, to which John reacted with a few seconds of blank stare before remembering that his name tag said Bucky, not John — a nickname that followed him for so long, he didn't even remember when it started. It definitely had nothing to do with the other Buck.
“Well, you look like a Buck,” was John's answer, in the hope that the guy might give him his real name — but apparently he didn't mind that his barista had baptized him after himself, and let John call him Buck. He also referred to John as Bucky, which used to swell John's heart with affection before he realized Buck only called him that because he had no idea what John's real name was, either.
“I'm so glad I took a job here to make ends meet,” Curt had told him after the umpteenth real names débâcle, right as John set aside a cinnamon roll for Buck. “I could've gone to the Hundredths near the History department and instead I'm here, enjoying a side of embarrassing pining with my daily coffee. It's wonderful to have you in my life Bucky, it truly is.”
“Thank you Curtis, I do it all for you,” John had answered, blowing him a kiss; then he'd noticed Buck looking at them, his face perfectly calm as usual if only for the slightest clench in his jaw, gone the second he realized John was watching him.
John spent the rest of his shift asking Curt loudly about his boyfriend Kenny, to make sure Buck knew there was nothing going on between the two baristas — why Buck should've cared, John couldn't say.
It seemed foolish to hope the other guy liked him back when he'd never even asked for his real name. Yeah, maybe the constant small talk about pastries could be considered flirting, but it could also just mean that Buck was a man of habit who enjoyed his routine just as much as his sweets. Sometimes John wished he'd met Buck working at a real bar, like the Hundredth; with some booze lighting the way things would've been clearer and he would've felt less awkward flirting openly with the guy — maybe he would've even taken him home already.
It's been a while now since the last time Buck came to the coffee shop; he left with a free cake pop and a weird look on his face, like he failed to do something he'd set his mind to, and probably went back home for the summer. Home, wherever the hell that was, to recharge and meet up with his friends from high school again, to compare college stories with them and go together to other cafes, places where the baristas knew his actual name and didn't call him stupid nicknames. Once he'll be back in September he won't even remember John or their silly little pastry routine, and John will be left with nothing but even more pining than usual.
In the back of the shop during an excruciatingly slow morning — really, he should tell Helen he doesn't want the early shift anymore now that Buck's gone — that's what John's thinking about: Buck coming back in September, looking at him weirdly as John greets him with his classic “Hiya, Buck!”, and finally telling him his real name, with a hint of disdain.
He almost drops an entire bag of coffee beans on his feet when he steps back behind the counter and sees Buck sitting at his usual table, glancing around a little tense; his hair is shorter than it was a few weeks ago but he looks paler, not like someone who's been having unrestrained summer fun with his high school friends. Maybe he's been sick, too much studying for his finals took a toll on his health; when he spots John though he visibly relaxes, slouching slightly in the armchair like someone snapped the wires that were keeping him upright.
John waves at him and Buck gives a small smile in response before getting distracted by Curt, who stops by his table with a full tray and gives him a tall glass and blueberry muffin.
“I'm sorry, I wanted to call you but I didn't know how to make it look natural,” Curt says apologetically once he's back at the counter. “He didn't look very happy to see me, but he didn't exactly asked where you were so…”
“Don't worry man, it's ok,” John shushes him, slapping him hard on the back. “But I'll take care of the refills if it's not a problem. We can split the tips if ya want.”
“Deal,” Curt says with a grin, and collected a drink for another table he goes back to their clients.
John takes a look at Buck who's sipping his drink with a focused expression that morphs, right under John's eyes, into a concerned one. John watches Buck's brow furrow as he pulls away from the drink, looking at it like it offended him; then something dawns on him, his eyes widen and he flags down Curt.
What the fuck did you give him? John thinks, watching his friend and Buck talk animatedly about something he can't hear — one time, one time he lets someone else make Buck's drink and they make it wrong!
Curt trots back to him, a fake smile on his face that does little to hide the concern beneath. “Hey Bucky,” he says and already John wants to murder him. “So, erm, Buck is asking if there's peanuts in the iced salted caramel macchiato.”
John blinks at him, once, twice. “Yeah, the salted caramel's made with a peanut butter toffee. Why is he drinking that? That's not his usual drink.”
“Well you know, Helen told us to push the new drinks on the menu so…”
“Wait,” John interrupts him, something ice cold creeping up his back. “Why is he asking about peanuts?”
Curt's guilty and worried look is all the answer John needs. “I'm going to fucking kill you,” he says between gritted teeth and then he runs up to Buck.
Buck has pushed his glass away from him and he's now sitting perfectly still, hands wrung in his lap as he takes deep breaths and stares right ahead, clearly trying to self-regulate.
“Hi,” John pants, skidding to a halt next to his table. “Did you drink any of that?”
“A few sips,” Buck says, his voice rougher than usual. “I just need to know-”
“There's peanuts. We make the salted caramel with peanut butter. Please, tell me you're not allergic to it.”
Buck exhales a trembling sigh. “I wish I could tell, Bucky,” he says bitterly, then grabs his backpack and starts rummaging through it.
“Are you ok? Do you need me to call an ambulance, do you have an EpiPen?” John asks, jittering with fear.
“No, no EpiPen. I mean I have one but I caught it soon, these should be enough,” Buck says, his words punctuated by a dry cough that terrifies John — he has zero experience with people having allergic reactions, what happens if Buck's throat seizes up and he can't breathe? Should he be looking up how to perform an emergency tracheotomy on Google, just to keep safe?
Under John's terrified eyes, Buck dry swallows three pills. Then he looks up at John, rightfully pissed off. “You should write these things in your menu, you know that? Or at least rely them to the costumers, especially if it's their first time being offered it!”
“You could've told us! You literally have a life threatening condition, why are you keeping it to yourself?”
“It's still your job to provide your clients with information! Unbelievable, fucking unbelievable,” Buck spits out — it's the first time John has ever heard him curse, he files that in a mental drawer for later.
“And for the salted caramel! Which is literally melted sugar and butter, cream, and salt! Unbelievable,” Buck continues muttering as he gathers his stuff and tries to stand up.
“Whoa! Shouldn't you wait a bit? So we can call an ambulance if the medicines aren't enough?” John offers, tries to grab Buck's arm but he flinches away and somehow that hurts more than knowing they almost killed him with their incompetence.
“Leave it, I'm fine. I can call it myself if I need to,” Buck says, sidestepping John and walking out of the bar. He doesn't slam the door behind his back, too well mannered even in such dire circumstances, but he's left behind his untouched blueberry muffin — and a pocket notebook, black leather worn soft by use.
John grabs it and runs to the door, opening with such force that it hits the wall and and his shoulder on its way back. “Wait, Buck! Your stuff!” He shouts, but the other guy's already gone, nowhere to be seen.
Hoping he's gonna be alright, that someone's gonna take care of him if he feels sick, John comes back inside with his tail between his legs. He picks up Buck's muffin and takes it to the counter, where Curt's waiting for him, tense and grimacing.
“I'm so-” he tries but John cuts him off.
“Not another word from you or I'll tell Helen to sack your sorry ass,” he says. Then, without sparing his friend even a glance, he grabs one of their tablets and sets to work.
—
There's a piece of paper stuffed inside the journal with a name on it — it almost feels like cheating learning that Buck's actually called Gale this way, but that's how John tracks him down. He lives a few streets over, just a five minutes walk from the Physics department so that's where John goes right after his shift ends.
A paper bag with the blueberry muffin in one hand, the journal in the other, John stands in front of the apartment building, swaying on his feet as he gathers the courage to step onto the porch and ring the bell. He really, really hopes Buck's doing alright; he's spent the rest of his shift with his ears perked up, trying to listen to every sound from the streets to catch the wailing of an ambulance's siren but it's all been quiet. It must be a good sign, right?
Two guys with a huge dog in stride walk out of the building; the one keeping the dog's leash sticks one foot in the door when he notices John standing outside. “Hi! Looking for someone?” He asks.
“Yeah, uhm, Gale? He left his journal at the coffee shop. Do you know if he's home?”
The guy's eyes light up in understanding and he smirks, while his companion barely raises his brow at John.
“Yeah he's in his flat. Third floor, first door on the left,” the amicable one says.
“He wasn't feeling very well earlier,” the other adds with an extremely pointed look.
John, who's starting to feel like the guy in the riddle with the two goblins, gives them a polite smile. “Well, thanks for the intel! Have a nice walk- hi buddy,” he says, bending to pat the dog's furry head before pulling the door open. The two guys walk away and John has the clear impression that he's gonna be the object of their conversation, but he shrugs the thought away and walks up to the third floor.
In the few seconds that pass between him ringing the doorbell and the door opening John holds his breath, vexed by the mental picture of Buck choked to death in his living room, lips swollen and purplish, his blue eyes glossy and vacant.
He almost starts crying in relief when Buck's face appears through the crack of the door, and takes in his appearance as quickly as he can: Buck's eyes are a little glossy, swollen like he's been crying, but his breath hitches in surprise when he sees John on his threshold which means he's definitely alive.
“Bucky? What are you doing here?” He asks, his voice still a little raspy. “How did you get up?”
“Your neighbors let me in, told me which floor you're at. How are you feeling? Did you have any more symptoms?” John inquires.
“I'm fine, just a little tired,” Buck shrugs. “Why are you here?”
To check on you seems a little lame, so John hands him the journal. “You left this at ZigZag, that's how I found out where you live. And I also brought a peace offer,” he adds, handing him the paper bag. “It's your usual muffin, you can eat that safely.”
Buck grabs his stuff and stares at John, dumbfounded. This was a mistake, John thinks and starts backing away. “I'm sorry I bothered you, but the journal seemed important and I didn't know if you were gonna come back after what happened so. Yeah. I'll leave you to it.”
“Wait! You can come inside if you want,” Buck offers, and John's over the threshold before the other can rescind his invitation.
Buck's place is the standard one bedroom flat that most students opt to live in, with a kitchenette and a small living room with just a green sofa, a coffee table, and a box shaped TV. There are books scattered on the coffee table alongside some notes, a chipped mug, and some medicine blister packs; the sight of those makes John shiver.
“You had to take more?” He asks, nodding at the empty packets.
Buck hesitates, then nods. “I must have touched my eyes with contaminated hands or something, because they started to swell. Nothing too dangerous, I just had to take one more pill,” he says and John's heart plummets to the floor.
“I am really, really sorry about what happened this morning,” he says, sitting down on the springy sofa when Buck gestures for him to. “Curt, my coworker, should've told you the ingredients of the drink. He shouldn't even have offered it to you but our boss told us to push it, and he didn't know your regular order so yeah. Oh and here's your money back, of course,” he says, fishing a crumpled bill from the pocket of his hoodie.
“There's no need,” Buck starts but John pushes the money in his hands. “There is. I would've given it back this morning, you don't have to pay for an attempted murder at your expense.”
A pale smile twists Buck's lips. “I shouldn't have reacted that bad, though. It was an honest mistake, and partly my fault for not asking. I was worried you'd changed your shift, I wasn't even listening to your colleague,” he says.
Something warm blossoms in John's chest. “I was just in the back. Where have you been? I thought you'd gone back home for the summer.”
There's the slightest twitch in Buck's jaw. “Yeah, I tried. Lasted a grand total of five days before moving out again, I stayed at a friend's for a week and then I came back here. And this morning I got up and walked to ZigZag to see you and you weren't there, and then your colleague tried to murder me. Not the best start for a summer holiday,” he jokes, dryly.
“You were there to see me?” John asks, his heart beating faster. “Because I'll let you know, I've been waiting for you to come back to ZigZag for weeks. I was even thinking about asking Helen for a shift change, cause the morning's not so interesting without our usual pastry banter,” he adds with a grin.
“Is it a banter?” Buck asks playfully. “I thought you were just really interested in my calories intake, or in selling your pastries.”
“Well in case you didn't notice, I do reserve you some special attentions. It's called being a good barista, you see.”
“Really? I thought it was called flirting,” Buck deadpans, his grin widening. John barks out a laughter, cheeks getting warmer.
“That too,” he concedes. “I thought you didn't notice.”
“You didn't have to stage an assassination attempt just to make sure I did,” Buck shoots back. He glances down then, blue eyes disappearing beneath golden eyelashes. “I was flirting back, you know?”
John gasps, theatrical but also earnest. “You were flirting with me?!” He exclaims, rejoicing in the way Buck's cheeks color crimson.
“I mean I tried, but I'm not very good at it, and I'd promised myself I was only gonna focus on my studying this year so… I wasn't at the best of my game,” Buck says and John finds himself wondering what the best of his game is, and if he'll be so lucky to find that out sooner or later — sooner would be better.
“But now the year's over, and I'm not going back home all summer so I'm finding myself with a lot of free time,” Buck says. “I might come back to ZigZag and get ahead of next semester's readings, if you guys promise to clearly declare the ingredients in your drinks. Say, tomorrow?”
“I've already put a note at the top of the menu and on the blackboard, for allergic people to tell us what they can't eat so that we can point them in the right direction. And I would really like if you came back to the bar to do your studies,” John says. He was hoping Buck might go back for other reasons, given how they've just admitted they were both flirting, but education is clearly really important for Buck and John can't deny he finds it hot — John Egan falling for a nerd, who would've thought.
“How much do you intend to study?” He asks.
“How long is your shift?” Buck answers smoothly.
“Four hours top,” John's quick to answer. “Then we could go and grab something, elsewhere?”
“Or I could cook us something. I'm good at it, and I know exactly what the ingredients are in every plate,” Buck suggests. “The pros and cons of some foods being your mortal enemies.”
“I'd love to try your cooking,” John tells him with a quiet smile. “And I have a bigger kitchen, if you need more space,” he adds, hoping he's not being too pushy.
“It's a date,” Buck nods, making John's heart bursts. He can already see them in his mind, Buck standing in front of his stove, instructing him to help him with this or that, looking gorgeous and at ease in John's home. He's not sure he can wait until tomorrow.
“Why don't we go now?” He proposes. “We could stop by the grocery store and you could tell me something more about you, like why you came back here instead of staying home.”
Buck shakes his head, the flash of a shadow on his face for a split second. “That's a long story, and I'm really tired right now. The medicines have this effect, plus the rush of adrenaline from the near death experience, you know,” he trails off.
“Of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I just realized I know very little about you, I mean, I only found out your name today.”
Buck laughs at that, a real, surprised laugh. “Are you for real? That's why you've been calling me Buck?”
“That, and also flirting. And by the way, you're calling me Bucky!”
“Yeah but I asked around for your name, John,” Buck says with a grin.
“Well sorry if I'm not a smarty pants like you, Gale,” John retorts, but can't keep a smile from his lips.
“It's ok,” Buck shakes his head, inching imperceptibly closer on the couch. “I kinda like it more when you call me Buck.”
John makes a quick recap in his head of all the things he's eaten today; when he's sure nothing with peanuts has been in his mouth he scoots closer to Buck, one hand on his knee, and Buck smiles.
“I kinda like it more, too.”