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Even before George walked through the cheery pastel door of the Spunky Cat Cafe, his mind was already on the work he wanted to get done before the day had officially started. It was routine as usual for him, and the overcast sky threatening rain upon the city streets and all their inhabitants provided the perfect environment for the tedious tasks and mundane reports the bookkeeper had set aside for himself. It was this precise mental schedule that led George to start every morning at the charmingly awkward cafe in the hours before work for years. Time and time again he found himself relying on the steaming cup of earl grey tea served in a cat-shaped coffee mug.
George was a creature of habit, and sitting in his cozy corner booth sipping his drink while the rest of the city woke up around him was a routine he wouldn’t trade for anything.
He couldn’t even remember how or when he first entered the place, nor how he ended up making it such a large part of his daily routine. The Spunky Cat wasn’t exactly his scene from a cursory look. The walls were covered in bright colors, drawings and details—mostly cats—hand-painted with that unique optimism that hung about the place. Furniture was as mismatched as the small collection of felines that lounged about. It was a hole-in-the-wall cafe smushed between two business buildings on West Avenue and felt entirely removed from the dull monotony of the rest of the world outside the large glass windows.
It was bright, goofy, and full of the charm of spontaneity that should oppose all of George’s clean lines and neatly polished routines, but somehow slid right into comfort without him noticing.
Even more confusing to him, George didn’t even like cats growing up. He couldn’t remember when that changed, but it must have, as his regular booth-mate, Sylvester Hissyfit, took up his usual post against George’s thigh.
As he scratched the Maine Coon behind the ears, George began sorting out the stack of misfiled reports he wanted to get through before he clocked into work at the Hamilton offices. He hadn’t ordered his usual yet, but he didn’t feel like disturbing Syl by getting up for the cup of tea. He could just order to-go when he left.
George had been initially surprised by the sheer number of misrepresented files he discovered at the end of the previous week, mostly due to his own part in authoring them, until it was found that all the reports were flagged for the same error: a mentioned agent who, by all accounts, simply did not exist.
George had contacted Max regarding the anomaly, thinking it was likely a coding error within their system or a bug in the online filing system. Max began a routine sweep of their program over the weekend to flag any inconsistencies. Beyond that, the only thing left to do was sort through the physical copies and highlight any mention of Agent23 for removal and reprocessing later in the office.
It was mindless work. Tedious and detailed in the way that normally invigorated George in its methodical simplicity, but this morning he caught his mind drifting from the black lettering circled in red ink. Maybe it was the weather, or Mr. Anomaly buried in George’s pristine bookkeeping work. Maybe it was the soft jazz leaking lazily from the wall-mounted speakers in the room, or the lone barista behind the counter.
It was quiet that morning and the cafe was entirely empty like it always was this early. The worker standing behind the counter dutifully performed opening tasks while waiting for the typical rush just before the local businesses opened for the day. He swept the tiles as the espresso machine ran through a cleaning cycle, a cat charm dangling off the brim of the baseball cap worn backwards to keep his hair pushed out of his face. George didn’t think he had seen him here before, which was unusual given how frequently he visited.
He must be new, George thought, eyes flickering down to his case notes in a poor attempt to refocus before immediately wandering back to the barista.
His hair was naturally dark, though at one point he must have dyed it blond, the ends still holding onto some of that golden color where it peaked out beneath the cap. It was on the longer side, stray tufts falling easily over the tips of his ears. His skin was a warmed tan even in the dreary early spring months where the sun, when it was out past the clouds, was blocked by the buildings that lined every street. He was tall as well, maybe even taller than George. Handsome too, in the objective way George was certainly capable of.
He turned his attention back to his notes.
Minutes ticked by and George wasn’t really in the project anymore, if he ever had been. His hand ached from circling Mr. Anomaly’s appearance in the 12th file. His mind kept drifting to his usual steaming cup of earl grey, debating whether or not he should get up and order. Wondering if he wanted the tea or if the lone barista had just sparked his interest. Wandering to thoughts of the roommate he still needed to find for the flat he shared. He would shake himself out of his thoughts and refocus on the files in front of him before the cycle would repeat again.
Then there was a honey-warm hand on the table sliding over a steaming to-go cup of earl grey tea.
George looked up from the notepad of scribbled dates and corrected file details to meet deep brown eyes and a gentle smile.
“Thank you,” George said, gaze sliding to the name tag pinned to the front of the man's apron that read “Alex” in big blocky letters. The apron looked well worn and so did the name tag, letters fading at the edges. Maybe Alex wasn’t new, and this was just his first time working early mornings. “I didn’t even order.”
Alex chuckled a little, sound reverberating like wind chimes throughout the vacancy of the Spunky Cat. “You look like an earl grey enjoyer. This one’s on me.”
“Thank you,” George repeated, sliding the cardboard cup closer to himself and taking a hesitant sip. He was first taken aback that the man—Alex—knew he drank earl grey, but then he caught the small tattoo marking on his inner wrist as he scratched the back of his neck. Two little symbols, identical to George’s own, designating a Blessed: mental order, and a third—different from George—a rank of 4, two higher than the pattern recognition blessing he possessed. He would bet good money it had something to do with that.
“You’re a Blessed?” George asked, curiosity and maybe a bit of boredom pushing the misfiled case reports from his mind entirely. “Sit, please,” he added, motioning across the table.
Alex blinked at him, looking around the empty cafe. He shrugged, sliding into the booth across from George. “Yeah, you are too.”
George nodded, eyes following Alex’s gaze to his own markings on his wrist. “I was just surprised. Usually Blessed don’t really work in cafes, especially mental order. Do you mind if I ask what it is?”
Alex shook his head, smile returning to his face. “Enhanced memory and intuition, things like that. Nothing special.”
“‘Nothing special’ he says, but he’s rank 4. You aren’t fooling me one bit. Four is outrageous for mental order, I would know.” Alex ducked his head at George’s insistence and George could make out a flush high on his cheeks.
“I’m being serious,” Alex laughed. “I just know things about people, I guess.”
“Uhuh, like which clients drink earl grey?” George took another sip for emphasis.
The smile drifted for a minute as Alex looked at the to-go cup held carefully between George’s hands. “Sure,” he said. “It was kind of just a feeling.”
“You should be working with a private agency with a blessing like that.”
Alex laughed again, though the sound lacked the richness from earlier, gaze shifting out the raindrop clad window before centering back on George. “I’m assuming that’s what you do.”
George nodded. “I’m a bookkeeper of sorts for Hamilton and his partners. I have pattern recognition capabilities. Rank 2.” He held his wrist up like a piece of evidence.
“Always so obsessed with those numbers,” Alex chuckled, shaking his head.
George felt heat rise to his face watching that bright smile breaking wide. “It's almost like that's kind of my whole thing.”
“Are you going to put me down in your notes?” Alex asked, teasing at the edge of George's corrected files with a wandering finger.
George pulled them back, pointedly ignoring the way his hand brushed Alex's and even more the shiver it sent up his own spine. “Maybe,” he didn’t know what possessed him to wink, but he did. “I just might be able to convince Hamilton to hire if you're looking for a job.”
“I'm happily employed at the moment.” Alex gestured around the cafe with a sweeping hand.
“Because serving teas before dawn is so thrilling,” George said.
Alex smirked. “Only the earl greys.”
And if George was ignoring the heat on his face and the tingle in his skin before, he found it impossible now.
Stop flirting with the new barista, George thought. His eyes slid to the worn edge of Alex's apron. Or… newish, whatever.
“In all seriousness, what is someone like you doing serving innocuous drinks at a place like this? I’m sure there must be a hundred agencies, private or not, that would take you onboard, no questions.”
Alex winced a little and George tracked the expression, curiosity sparking through him again. “I used to work at one, actually.”
“Oh, which one?”
“I can’t really say. I was involved with their external team and my termination was ultimately unintentional.”
George's mind conjured images of the highly confidential missions he was familiar with. Serious targets, tight constraints, and maybe even some under-the-table deals. Someone with Alex’s skillset would be right in the thick of it, naturally. While Hamilton marketed his agency as completely above-board, George knew that the best paying jobs were rooted underground, and a Blessed like Alex could be an indispensable asset.
“You ever do any missions?” Alex asked, maybe just as interested as George, or maybe just trying to get the attention off himself.
“I used to join on occasion. Anytime they thought they might need a codebreaker, that kind of thing. I haven’t been on one recently though. Last one didn’t go exactly as planned. Failed mission, sustained damages.”
Alex hummed his understanding.
“And now on top of it, the case file was completely misreported.” George tapped one of the marks of red pen on the top of the stack.
“Imagine that.” Alex glanced quickly away from the papers and took his cap off, running a hand through his hair. It was then that George caught the dual marking on his other wrist for the first time.
“You’re cursed too,” he said.
Alex turned both his hands upward on the table, displaying the inner side of his forearm. “Yep, thinking about a whole patchwork arm sleeve.” He winked.
“Rank fucking 5, Jesus Christ.”
“It's just a number.” Alex shrugged.
It wasn’t necessarily uncommon to have both a blessing and a curse, definitely better than a curse alone. Maybe it struck him as odd because he wasn’t used to seeing someone wear the marking openly, without trying to cover it with bracelets or a watch band. Especially one so strong.
George really wanted to ask about it.
Normally people didn’t talk about curses, if they had them. They were usually personal, and kept private. It certainly wasn’t a typical topic for spontaneous conversation with a new acquaintance. But something in George just had to know.
“Do you mind me asking?”
Maybe Alex looked surprised. Maybe he looked sad. Maybe if George knew Alex he would know all the different microexpressions that seemed to cross the other’s face.
Alex blinked again, thumb running over the sharp markings of his wrist. “People forget me.”
“Forget you?”
Alex looked at him, dark warmth that George felt he could sink into. “After some time apart, people just forget I exist.”
A smile, like grief. Lingering, crushing grief in the crinkle of Alex’s eyes. Underneath the charm and the winks and the blocky lettering on a cat-shaped name tag.
“How long?” George asked, like he couldn’t help himself. And maybe he couldn’t, choking on the eagerness and overwhelming heaviness that now sat between them.
“Depends on how well the person knows me, really.” Alex watched the rain out of the window again. He wouldn't look at his hands or George or the distance between them. “For strangers or brief acquaintances, almost instantly. For others, longer.”
“Oh.” George came up empty when searching for the right words. He wasn’t sure there was something he could say to ease that kind of wound. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, George.”
“Is that why you don’t work for your agency anymore?” George probably shouldn’t pry further. This wasn’t Ollies’ inability to remember the order of the alphabet. This wasn’t Franco sneezing at the top of every hour.
This was potent and crippling. This was Charles and the never-ceasing misfortune that nipped at his heels. This was Lando: unkillable, no matter how much he was forced to endure.
Alex had a disease. A clock ticking down minutes and hours of a life he would never be able to maintain and never replicate again. George couldn’t imagine forgetting someone who had once been so important in his life. He couldn’t imagine what the pain must be for Alex, who remembers it all.
“Yeah, it was a mission that went bad, and I ended up lost in the process.”
George knows he should stop asking about it, that Alex was a stranger at his favorite cafe. That Alex was a human struggling with a deep, immense ache no one would be able to ease. It wasn’t his place to pry like he had been, like he continued to want to.
“Do you have family?” he asked, hoping for something gentler, kinder.
Alex's smile returned to something a touch more fond. “Yeah, three sisters and a brother, all younger.”
“They all work in cafes too?” George said with a wink, hoping to get Alex to laugh again.
“No no, they all do much bigger things than me.” He did laugh and George counted it a victory. “I could talk for hours about them, honestly, but I'm glad that they've been able to make something for themselves, even without me.”
“They don't remember you either? They should know you better than anyone.” George regretted it the moment he said it. He could see the question, like a knife, as Alex took it in. He could feel his fingers on the hilt, twisting it deeper with every question.
“I lost my family really early.”
“Oh,” he said again. “I’m sorry about that too.”
Alex shrugged and George was beginning to be infuriated at the movement. “My mom went to prison for a time, and I cared for my siblings during it. My grandparents came for them after a couple years and I was sent to school elsewhere. That was all it took.”
“You didn’t ever try to reconnect?” George didn’t know why his heart felt so heavy. He had never been an emotionally driven person before. He didn’t know why he felt so desperate for Alex to find again some semblance of the relationships he had been mourning for years.
“I could never do that to them,” he said. He smiled again, and this time George felt ill from the poorly concealed sadness hidden within. Like every effort it took to curl his lips into that familiar curve was laced with a pain carried for years. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping this on you. You don’t even know me.”
“No, I apologize. I was the one who asked,” George said. He regretted asking. He regretted feeling the way he did about it. Alex seemed nice. He was friendly, and kind. He didn’t deserve feeling like every ounce of love returned was temporary to his constant presence.
One of the older cats leapt up onto Alex’s booth seat and curled into his lap. Alex began stroking the greying fur with mindless familiarity.
“I do regret one thing.”
George tried to meet his eyes, but Alex was once again avoiding looking anywhere near George.
“Before they were taken away, I had a fight with my oldest sister, Alicia. She blamed me for Mum being arrested. That Mum only stole the money to keep me in karting. It was my stupid dreams that landed her in prison.”
“You know that's not true, Alex.”
Alex shook his head and refocused his attention back on the cat in his lap. “It doesn't matter now anyway. I think my career in racing would have been as forgettable as me. I just wish she hadn't left mad.”
“I used to kart too. Used to dream of Formula 1,” George said.
Alex smiled at him, eyes catching briefly. “What a coincidence.”
“Maybe we ran into each other, racing in England. Maybe we were in the same category at some point.”
Alex didn't look back up from the cat again. Didn't say when he raced, or if they had crossed paths and George had just forgotten.
And he would have forgotten, wouldn’t he?
“Would you even tell me if we had known each other?”
Alex looked at him again, closer this time. Like maybe he was thinking about saying something different than the answer that automatically came to mind. He didn’t say it. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t bring the memories back.” Alex pushed the to-go cup closer to George’s hand. “It will get cold soon.”
George picked up the cup, holding it in his hands like he could trap the warmth in.
“The mission, your team… they really forgot so quickly?”
“It wasn’t all bad I guess. For a long time I did have my team. I had, like, actual friends I saw so frequently they remembered me day to day. Some of us actually lived together in an apartment close to work. I…” he trailed off, searching George’s expression for something, George wasn’t sure. “I fell in love.” He laughed. “With my roommate, of all people. My childhood best friend.”
George imagined a full apartment like his own. Charles and Max in the bedroom across from him and Lando down the hall, Oscar moving in soon. He imagined having a roommate. He didn’t, but he was looking, and maybe now he would be looking for someone like Alex to fill that space.
He could imagine Alex was a good roommate. Thoughtful and considerate in the way he would make space for others, make tea for others before they ask. Cheery and bright the way his soul lit up a space even in the dreary hours before morning and sun.
A softer, deeper part of him imagined Alex was a good lover too. Kind and giving in every moment even and until the very end. Gentle and loving in the late hours as much as the early. Warm in both mind and body, the kind you melt into after long days.
“It was good. Really good. It felt manageable. We worked together, lived together, loved together. He remembered everything and I had never been that close with someone before.”
George had never been in love like that, had never had a person like that. It was as though hearing Alex talk had reminded him of this empty space in his life, a gap he had misplaced and let drift throughout the years. He imagined he wanted it. He imagined the lazy morning cuddles in a shared bed. He imagined the comfortable silence sat across from someone in a cafe just like the Spunky Cat. He imagined the smiles and laughter and kisses just for him.
“I knew the risks of the job, he did too. A routine mission went wrong. Time passed.” Alex’s hand began drumming out a gentle pattern on the wood. “It was enough.”
George knew it must have been the time that was the worst of it all. Knowing it was passing, knowing that with each additional second someone else was letting Alex slip from their memory.
“Did you find him after? He might remember.” George reached a hand across the table, fingertips not quite reaching Alex’s hand where it tapped the wood in whatever rhythm was playing in his head.
Alex looked at George’s outstretched hand. His eyes trailed up George’s arm and to his face, meeting his own gaze. That expression was back on Alex again. The one that George couldn’t place, but if Alex wasn’t a stranger he would be able to read.
If Alex wasn’t a stranger, George would be able to read all of him.
“I did,” Alex said, eyes never leaving George’s own. “He didn’t.”
The bell above the door rang as another customer entered the Spunky Cat.
“I have to get that,” Alex said, almost apologetic.
“Yeah,” George said, choking back all the other things he wanted to say. All the things he felt like he needed to say. His watch beeped a familiar alarm. “I have to go to work anyway.”
Alex slid off the booth, gently setting the older cat to the floor, and replacing his cap. “Hi! How can I help you?” he greeted the other patron with a cheerful resilience George didn’t understand anymore.
When George had packed his things up, wincing a little at the lack of work he had done on the misfiled cases, he paused at the door.
“See you tomorrow, George,” Alex called from behind the counter as he set the espresso machine to making the newcomer’s order. He was all smiles again. Bright and alive and perfectly at home in the Spunky Cat.
“See you, Alex,” George replied, raising the tea as he pushed his way out the door and stepped onto West Avenue.
The doors of Hamilton offices were a fifteen minute walk from the Spunky Cat. The rest of West Avenue felt cold and detached from the warmth of the cafe. The rain had stopped, but the shine on the sidewalk was still prevalent and George could make out his reflection every step of his daily commute.
He started his mental list of tasks to do for the agency, filing them away into categories like “urgent” and “tedious”. By the time he pushed through the doors of the office building, he knew where he would begin with it all and his earl grey tea in a to-go cup had gone cold.
George tossed it into the bin by the elevator, chuckling to himself because he couldn’t even remember ordering it.
His office was dim and silent, far from the lively spark of the environment he just left. The weather forecast had promised nothing but chilly drizzle for the coming week, and maybe George should have felt pleased with that. Growing up, George liked the rainy mornings and the dreary, cloudy days. He felt productive in that limbo where time seemed to slow behind the clouds.
That must have changed at some point in his life, because as George opened the blinds in his office, he wondered if the sun would come out that day.