Work Text:
It was an otherwise incredibly dull story to tell anyone who’d pretend to care enough to ask. Teacake was dropping in for a bottle of juice on the way home from his overnight shift while you were just…there, standing out in front of the 7-11, staring at the pink-ening clouds with an empty Choco Taco wrapper in your hand. Teacake stood a healthy 6 foot distance away, idly sipping his orange-guava-fusion-something drink as he too looked up at the early morning sky.
Teacake’s mind was racing, as it often tended to do, through a checklist of errands he had to run later in the day in the short amount of time he had between his god given 8 hours of rest and his parole ordered 8 hours of employment. It would’ve done him well to have written any single task on his phone, or even a simple paper note pad (he had a cool deadstock pad with his name on it that he bought from the dollar trinket bin at the thrift sitting in a drawer somewhere in his apartment that he’d been meaning to locate), but uh, it always seem to slip his mind to do so. Well, for one, he needed to grab groceries. That much Teacake remembered. The carton of 2% barely had enough for a bowl of cereal, unless he decided to eat his cereal out of a teacup.
He chuckled to himself. ‘Teacake eating out of a teacup.’ Sounded like something someone would say to him in his middle school cafeteria before demanding his leftover lunch money.
Anyways, food, right, yes. Milk was running low, so he needed to get that. The bananas he had on the counter were looking a bit questionable last he actually acknowledged them. Spotty, like his grandma was before she passed, so maybe they were still edible? Teacake would have to double check. Just as he wondered about what lunch meat he should buy since he was getting tired of two weeks of honey ham sandwiches, he caught movement from his peripherals.
“Howdy,” you suddenly said.
Your tone was resting somewhere between sternly factual and cautiously optimistic. He was startled, but turned to you with a smile regardless, saying,
“Back at ya! Nice day out, ain’t it? I mean, I assume so, I’m gonna be sleepin’ through most of it on account of my job. It’s a night thing, so I gotta charge up, y’know? What about you? You just gettin’ outta work too or—”
“Your tattoo,” you interrupted him, not even peeling your eyes away from the sky. “It says ‘Howdy.’”
“…Oh,” Teacake replied, scratching at said tattoo sheepishly. “Yeah that, that it does.”
He took a swig of his orange-guava juice, watching you through his side-eye to see if you’d face him (you did not). From your profile, he could tell that you were pretty. You looked calm yet focused. Bulky black headphones covered in Lisa Frank stickers sat on your head with one ear left out exposed. You had on an oversized jean jacket that fell to your (bare) thighs and a pair of well-worn pink flip flops, the latter of which had him immediately picturing (for some reason, he side-noted) you buying them from Walmart on the way to a community pool that required them for entry, and that then they somehow became your go-to snack run shoes.
It was an interesting outfit for the early-Spring chill.
"Haven't had one of those in a while," Teacake piped up again, motioning to your crumpled Choco Taco wrapper. "Man, I used to have such a phase when I was 'bout eight or nine and the ice cream truck used to always pull up at the park, eating nothin' but Choco Tacos and Fudgsicles, but then one time I was like hmm, y'know, I ain't never had Shots before—y'know, those lemon-lime balls in a cup? Uh, that sounded weird, it's not, not like that, it's ice, but yeah, I had that one day and I was like oh damn, now this? This right here's somethin' different."
"Holy shit, you talk a lot."
You finally glanced at him with a twisted grimace, ducking your head down towards your feet when Teacake looked back in surprise. Hazel eyes danced over your half-hidden face and figure. He laughed nervously, running a hand through his fried blonde hair. Yeah, you were totally pretty, and he was totally out of his element.
"Yeah, uh, sorry 'bout that."
"Why?"
"Huh?"
"Why are you saying sorry?" You asked, tone sounding genuinely curious as you peeked over at him through some hair that had flopped over your face. He was thrown for a loop. Usually when people made a comment and/or complaint about his chattiness, their entire demeanor was carried by disdain, as if they thought he should have known better than to try and be polite and just, like, try to make conversation with them.
Teacake always just apologized without thinking about it. But…why did he apologize for being himself? How come just now, after twenty or so odd years this was the first time someone was asking that question for him?
"Oh, uh, I dunno. 'S just...I dunno why I'm sorry, actually. If you’re uncomfortable and want me to stop, I can, just say the word! Don't wanna make ya skittish or…something. Y'know?"
"I'm not uncomfortable," you snapped, kicking a pebble away from you towards the tall, dry patch of grass lining the right of the 7-11. Tucking your flushing face further into your jacket, you mumbled, "Don't put words in my mouth, thanks."
Teacake smiled. In a pretty weird way, you were charming. Despite your introverted posture and aversion to eye contact, you spoke confidently, very much assured of who you were and what you liked. He found himself wanting to talk to you for hours exactly like this. He wouldn’t get tired. He was sure of that.
He lifted his bottle to drink some more orange-guava juice only to discover he was already out. Huh. When did that happen?
"Well, guess I should be goin' now," he said, sighing as he threw the empty bottle into a nearby trash can. "Gotta hit the hay and go to work after."
"You do you, man."
"Teacake."
The energy suddenly shifted. He felt it.
"...What?" You loudly asked, whipping your head over to him. Your tone was bewildered despite how neutral your features sat. Teacake grinned, pleased that he finally had your full attention.
"My name, it's Teacake—Er, well, that's what everyone who knows me calls me, it's not actually my name. That'd be, that'd be weird, haha."
"Yeah, it would," you agreed, nodding as if you were genuinely relieved that his parents didn't pick such an unusual name for their child. Teacake tilted his head towards you.
"And you?"
"Me what?" You asked, brows furrowing.
"Your...your name?" He asked, brows furrowing back.
"Oh, right," you said, pocketing your Choco Taco wrapper. "I'm not telling you."
"Huh?"
"I don't trust you. You're a stranger."
"But...huh?"
The chime of the store's front door cut into the conversation. The cashier, a 60-something year old man with a faded Miami Dolphins cap and wrinkled uniform shirt unbuttoned, was headed out to take a smoke break around the corner of the store. He paused, grey eyes flicking between you (hunched in, eyes averted, "innocent" like) and Teacake (slack jawed, wide eyed, "aggressive," potentially).
"This man botherin' you, darlin'?" He gruffly asked, staring down the frazzled storage lot worker. You flashed a smile, shaking your head as you faced the cashier easily (Teacake couldn’t help but feel some sort of way about that).
"No, Sir, I'm alright!"
The cashier looked back at you in mild concern, but walked down to the ice box that sat right before the corner of the store to keep an eye out on you as he smoked his Newport's. He'd known you (in a loose sense of the term) as a regular for a year now. At first he didn’t take too kindly to how you often stalked around the store with a face that looked like you'd stepped in shit, but from the few verbal interactions he’d had with you, he realized it was something completely different—You weren't a bitch, you were just what people would call "slow" (in a backhandedly affectionate way, of course). As such, he often felt the need to keep an eye out for you when you were left alone with a male customer.
Teacake swallowed, feeling properly awkward for the first time in a long time. You were observing him with an unreadable expression. Your hand went back to your pocket to crinkle around the empty (and messy) ice cream wrapper. The mildly obnoxious sound filled the silence, at least until an old station wagon rumbled by down the street. You waited for it to pass before spitting out a word.
“What was that?”
“You asked for my name. That’s my name.”
"H-huh?” He sputtered. “Now hold on, wait a minute, didn't you just say—"
"Mmhm."
"So then why—"
"I dunno," you replied with a shrug, reaching into your jacket pocket for your phone. “You’re okay, I guess.”
Checking the time, you nodded and started to walk away from the store. Dumbfounded, Teacake called out,
"Hey, wait! Where are ya goin'?"
"The bus," you flatly called back, still looking down at your phone.
"Well, uh, shit, can I get your number then?"
You halted in your tracks. Glancing over your shoulder, you stiffly asked, "Why?"
"'Cause I like talkin' to ya!"
You'd deny it later, but he caught it. Of course he did. That tell-tale flicker across your features that gave away that you'd been hoping that he'd say that.
Your mouth opened and shut, as if you were trying to work out an appropriate response in your head the same way you would solve a difficult math equation. Truthfully, you’d long given up on learning how to talk to people after years of being told you were unapproachable, “too much” but also “not enough,” no matter how hard you tried to follow others’ leads, that maybe you should work on your smile if you wanted people to like you. As you transitioned from an isolated teenager to an isolated adult, you convinced yourself that you were fine if people went out of their way not to talk to you, because you never liked people all that much to begin with.
But that part wasn’t entirely true. You did like people at one point and had always wondered why they never seemed to accept you unconditionally the way you did them, and regrettably, it was times like this where you did happen to like a specific someone that had you wishing you had socially acceptable conversation skills.
"Damn," was what you ended up blurting out, much to your immediate embarrassment.
You two stood 20 feet away, staring at each other with heated faces and eyes flitting about to try and find a better answer somewhere, perhaps buried underneath the yellowing paint of the 7-11's storefront or carried by the new rat that was snooping around the dry grass for soggy taquito scraps.
"Uh, I..."
"Yeah, you..."
The smoking cashier scoffed, shaking his head as he watched the cringeworthy interaction go down.
Snuffing his cigarette against the ice box and heading back into the store, the middle aged man clapped a hand on Teacake's shoulder, muttering, "She's got her phone out, genius." Snapping out of his jumbled thoughts, Teacake swallowed and nodded, jutting an index finger towards you (you flinched in response).
"So I'll give you my number then, and uh, I dunno, you can hit me up if you want or whatever. If you want," he said, watching as you flared your nostrils and scrambled to open up your contacts app. Blushing furiously and refusing at all costs to look back up, you held a thumb up to signal for Teacake to start rattling his digits off.
When you got all ten down, you asked sincerely, "Um, when do you want me to talk to you?"
"What do you mean?" He asked, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Well I don't know what your schedule's like," you huffed, turning to scowl at a tree. "And I don't want to interrupt you when you're working or sleeping or jerking off or whatever. I hate when people do that to me."
"Uh..." Teacake trailed off, his smile momentarily faltering. That wasn't very ladylike of you to say, nor was he expecting it to come out so casually. Sticking his tongue out against the edge of his lips, he looked up to the sky as he tried to work out a reasonable time.
"How's about five in the afternoon. That good for ya?"
"No."
"Oh. Six then?"
"Okay, bye!"
You scrunched your face in a something-in-my-eye sort of way, then you spun on your heel and ran out of the parking lot. Teacake weakly lifted his hand and muttered, "bye," head spinning as he tried to process the strange twenty minutes he'd just experienced. No, not strange, just different. Good different.
A yawn pushed its way from his throat. Right, it was almost 8am and he was overdue for 'recharging' before his next incredibly dull shift at Atchison Storage. Sighing, he walked over to his car and thought about the last slice of cinnamon raisin toast waiting to be scarfed down butter-less the second he got it into his apartment.
As he attempted to start his grocery list over in his mind, he found that it was quickly replaced with the playback of his (fateful) experience at that 7-11. You were attractive, even though you didn't really smile. You couldn't look at him, but you happily accepted his number. You could be foul mouthed, but your posture was mostly demure.
You were like a puzzle waiting to be solved, and Teacake would, if you'd have him—and you would, as he received a text from an unknown number at six o'clock on the dot later that very evening.