Chapter Text
Kaz turns on the news; the low buzz of serious tones and topics fills the apartment. It feels like something an adult would do, something he should be doing, especially today.
Some Davenport kid is back after two weeks missing. The news murmurs on as Kaz pulls on his jacket, barely registering the words coming out of the TV. No matter where he goes, he can't escape hearing something new about the Davenports.
He glances at the TV just in time to see a family photo flash across the screen. His eyes skim the faces out of habit and then stall on one of the younger ones. Second youngest, maybe. Chance? Chase? Something like that
Kaz isn’t entirely sure of the name, but he’s sure of one thing: yeah. Definitely his type.
Before he can linger on the thought, a sharp beeping cuts through the room. Kaz flinches. Shit. His interview is in less than two hours, and he still hasn’t gone over his mental list of things not to do. Don’t ramble. Don’t joke too much. Don’t “Kaz it up,” as his friends loved to remind him.
He exhales, shoving the annoyance aside.
Mighty Mug feels surreal; a month of silence had convinced him they looked at his ridiculous name and trashed his resume, recommendation or not. Yet here he was, keys in hand, stomach in knots despite Oliver's advice looping uselessly in his head
“…threats against the Davenport family are increasing exponentially,” the anchor says. Something about heightened security for all of the Davenport kids.
Kaz pauses.
Huh, now what kind of trouble has this family gotten into this time?
He tightens his grip on his keys, that familiar sinking feeling curling in his gut. Probably just nerves. Just the interview.
He reaches over and shuts the TV off.
The outside of the coffee shop seemed normal enough. The sign read "Mighty Mug," which should have been reassuring—though it wouldn’t be the first time Kaz had walked into a place without thinking it through.
Why would a café have a symbol like that?
At first glance, the giant M warped around a circle looked questionable. Upon closer inspection, it got worse. Beneath the circle were two snakes winding around a staff.
Kaz stared at it for a long moment.
Is this a coffee shop or a clinic?
Inside, he had to take a double take. From the outside, the place looked tiny. Inside, it was anything but. The whiplash hit immediately. He made a mental note to ask Oliver what he considered “normal,” because this place was absolutely not.
The stools at the counter were shaped like oversized pills. Behind the counter, shelves lined with neatly arranged containers gave off an unsettling pharmacy vibe. The layout was technically café-shaped, but every table had a small sign labeling it an “operating table,” complete with a number. The metallic tabletops didn’t help the hospital aesthetic.
When Kaz stepped closer to the counter, he noticed the pastries weren’t under glass domes; they were sealed in test tubes. Yeah, he's definitely way over his head.
So absorbed in the scenery, Kaz didn’t notice the older man waving at him.
“What can I get for you?” the man asked suddenly. “You seem stressed, so I wouldn’t recommend coffee. Or caffeine in general—I would recommend an herbal tea; we have a wide selection that has stress-relieving qualities.”
He said it like a diagnosis.
“Oh—uh, no,” Kaz blurted. “I’m here for the interview,” slightly chuckling. “You must be Horace.”
“That’s correct!” Horace said, beaming. “Quick! What am I thinking?”
Kaz resisted the urge to cringe. Only after the words left his mouth did he realize he probably shouldn’t have been able to guess that so easily.
Oliver was definitely getting interrogated later.
After managing to evade Horace's line of questions about how he is "definitely" a psychic who should give him the next numbers for the lottery. He could finally start his interview, which created a new spiral of thoughts.
“So,” Horace said, clasping his hands together. “Interview.”
Kaz nodded a little too fast. “Yes. Hi.”
“You’re nervous,” Horace observed. “Heart rate elevated, leg shaking, pupils dilated. I’d prescribe deep breathing, but we’re on a schedule.”
“Oh,” Kaz said, trying his best to remain composed, “Great.”
Once both of the men sat down, Kaz started to play with the table coasters, and of course they are in a shape of bandages
Kaz couldn't control his leg from shaking. His leg bounced under the table. His heart felt like it was trying to escape his chest. If his hands weren’t busy, his thoughts weren’t either; when his mind was left to its own devices… well, that was dangerous.
Rent wasn’t cheap.
Neither was tuition.
And juggling school, work, and whatever counted as a social life sounded like a fantasy.
He was definitely going to live in the library this semester.
“What kind of coffee making experience do you have?” Horace asked. “We have a plethora of drinks—”
And then he started listing them.
Kaz tried to follow along. He really did. But the words blurred together into foam ratios, brew times, temperatures—
Oh. I’m fucked.
All requiring experience. Real experience. Not whatever Oliver had convinced him this was. Kaz wondered, briefly and bitterly, why Oliver had told him to apply in the first place. How had Oliver even gotten hired? What experience did he have?
Kaz’s entire coffee résumé amounted to one thing.
The machine.
“The main challenge,” Horace continued, “is operating the MedPress.”
Kaz’s head snapped up.
That one.
“Oh—yeah,” Kaz said quickly, words tumbling over themselves. “That machine can be… intense. But Oliver and I used it a lot. We got pretty good.”
Horace stopped talking.
Kaz held his breath.
“Ah,” Horace said finally, smiling. “Now it makes sense.”
Relief hit Kaz so fast it was almost dizzying.
Okay. Maybe Oliver didn’t set me up to fail.
Kaz blinked. “Explains… what?”
“Why your name sounded familiar,” Horace said, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. “You’re Oliver’s friend. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I—” Kaz started.
“No need,” Horace said, waving him off. “Interview essentially complete.”
Kaz took a good second to process what he said, responding in a daze, “Wait—really?”
“Of course,” Horace said. “Anyone trusted by Oliver is either competent or extremely lucky. Both are acceptable.”
Horace unfolded the paper and handed it to Kaz. “Here’s the list of drinks you’ll need to know for the MedPress.”
Kaz stared at it.
“…This is a picture of a bridge.”
Horace gasped and snatched it back. “Wrong pocket. I love bridges!”
He replaced it with another sheet. “Here we go.”
Kaz glanced over the list. His stomach dropped. More than half the drinks required the MedPress.
Horace beamed. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?”
Kaz managed a smile. “A little.”
“Excellent,” Horace said. “You start next week.”