Chapter Text
You're a barista. Not the fancy "latte artist" kind but the "trained abroad to finance your travels" kind. You enjoyed it well enough but thought you'd leave it behind eventually. When you settled in London, the experience came in handy again. It's not an easy place to eke out a living in, and you're rather surprised that your job at the Beetroot Cafe somehow pays all your bills. Then again the cafe is situated right on the edge of Posh-Land, as you like to call Kensington and all other neighbourhoods where the display windows suddenly lose their price tags.
The Beetroot cafe is right between the Design Museum and the Magnus Institute, and you rather like it. It's very twee. It has all the trappings necessary to attract both the exhausted business white-collar folks still clinging to a sense of personality and the forever-youthful, flannel clad crowd: low jazz music played from actual vinyls, wrought iron skylights, unique carpets and eclectic furniture that are a nightmare to clean, ancient mirrors and fine art for sale on the walls, and as many plants as a botanical garden's greenhouse.
Your colleagues are friendly and all appreciate that by London standards, they could have it far worse. It's almost perfect, but then no job ever is. Working long hours in a cafe is taxing on your back and feet, and a murder to your wardrobe. You're often too exhausted to get much done when you get home. That's just hospitality though. The real nuisance, as usual, is mostly due to assholes.
The Beetroot's owner, for one, when he shows his face. Mark, as he insists you call him, is insufferable. You flat out refuse to believe he's behind the cafe's bohemian-chic design, no matter what your manager claims. All the man ever does is juggle the properties his parents gifted him, bitch, moan, and breath down your neck while noisily sipping at an endless string of macchiatos. Hopefully, Mark has just enough properties to keep him busy and out of the shop.
The same can't be said of Harry, another aptly named twat who looks just the right shade of pink to be in line for the throne, and acts like it too. He's known by all staff members, as assholes are wont to be. You're not the first he's harassed, but you're the newest hire and you didn't know to be wary of him, so you made the fatal error of being all smiles and politeness the first time you met.
At least the manager—a middle-aged music nerd called Tom, who owns the stacks of vinyls and hand-picks the music—knows to step in when Harry shows up. All the baristas have made it clear they aren't paid enough to put up with him beyond making his coffee.
Then there's Mrs. Walker, who is always looking for an argument and incredibly skilled at manufacturing them, and Scott, whose face is locked in a permanent sneer and makes judgmental remarks like he just can't help himself.
You discover these prickly customers over time, but there's one asshole you were warned about in advance on your very first day. A regular you were bound to meet and get burned by. Sandra, the French woman who supervises you on your first week, makes sure you're prepared for him. She elbows you on your third day, whispering for you to brace for impact.
Elias Bouchard, the director of the Magnus Institute, terror of the local coffee scene, turns out to be a very underwhelming man, considering how much your colleagues hyped him up.
He walks in with his pointed nose buried in a wad of papers, beelining to the counter without ever looking up. He's lean, of middling height, and has the sort of skin poets take out the big words for. Gossamer. Diaphanous. Like there's a chance he might glow in the dark. His bright ginger hair is slicked back in a Peaky Blinders undercut, with no effort made to cover greying temples.
You give Sandra a sideways look. She did not prepare you for a twinky silver fox.
You put your best foot forward and smile at the man. 'Hello, sir. What can I get you today?'
Mr. Bouchard looks up then, and you finally get it. His eyes are some undefinable, washed out colour, yet they pin you down and slice right through you. You feel oddly naked under his scrutiny, and when his eyebrows draw together in a frown, a strange compulsion to apologise nearly overcomes you, even though you've said nothing but polite greetings. Sandra shifts besides you, unease wafting off her like a cloying perfume. You stand your ground, rubbing clammy palms against your apron.
When Mr. Bouchard finally speaks, it breaks the spell. 'Well, hello,' he says, sounding perfectly polite and amiable. He even smiles. 'You're new, I see.'
You tip your head in acknowledgment. 'It's my third day, but not my first rodeo. What can I make you, sir?'
If Sandra, Tom, Shay and Dylan are correct, he'll first order an espresso to judge your shot quality, and if you pass that test, a flat white to judge your milk. You're not particularly afraid, especially now that you're confronted with the man himself. With his linen waistcoat, rolled up sleeves and leather loafers, he looks like he escaped a summer wedding party. Nothing about him is intimidating, besides the sharpness of his gaze.
'If you don't mind me testing your skills, I'd like an espresso first.'
You smile and set to work. Mr. Bouchard follows you to the coffee machine while Sandra turns to serve the next customer with palpable relief.
You throw away your first shot—it flowed too fast—and adjust the grinder accordingly. Your expectant customer follows your every move but makes no comment. He nods his thanks when you hand him his drink.
Again, as you've been told, he only takes a single sip, eyes closed, lips pinched in concentration. When he opens his eyes and smiles at you, you let out a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding.
'Excellent,' he says. 'Could I try a flat white from you now?'
'Sure can do.'
Feeling like the quality of the milk will matter more than decoration, you make no attempt at a cute fern or heart as you pour the milk. Again, he takes a single sip.
Sandra materialises next to you, a hand grabbing your elbow, though more to support herself than you.
Mr. Bouchard nods again, satisfied. 'Brilliant,' he says. He beams at you, laughter lines crinkling around his pale eyes. 'Could you make me a mocha? With milk not any foamier than a latte, in a big cup.'
'Do you want a bowl?'
Sandra's grip tightens, but you ignore her.
Mr. Bouchard's eyebrows shoot up at the offer. 'You have those?'
'Sure, there's a couple behind the counter. I can make it three shots so it's not too dilluted, if you want. It'll just cost you a little more.'
He ponders your offer for a moment, glancing down at his papers like the answer is written on them.
'Fine,' he says. 'I'll trust you and try it out.'
'I'll do my best,' you say with your brightest customer service smile.
Sandra goes to cash in Mr. Bouchard's order while you make his coffee. You find him sat at a corner table, with view over the whole room, his papers already spread out on the table in front of him.
'Here you go,' you say, putting the bowl down. 'Let me know if it's not to your liking.'
He grabs it before you can turn away, and you decide to wait for his verdict. He's the dragon, after all. The man who tolerates Tom and Sandra's coffee, and quietly shamed everyone else. You wonder why your colleagues all seem so rattled when they speak of their experience with him. He seems fine to you. Maybe a little picky, but extravagant personalities aren't that rare, and he's far from the worst customer you've encountered.
'I like it,' he declares, setting the bowl down. 'I think you can consider it my regular order from now on. When are your days off?'
You laugh, delighted by the bluntness of the question. 'Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I can't tell you when I'm on open or close, but if you come around this time I should always be here.'
He nods again, and this time it feels like a dismissal. You leave him to it, proud to have cleared this hurdle flawlessly. Compliments to your skills never hurt, and they're never sweeter than coming from a known grouch.
You slide back behind the counter and get started on the next docket, but Sandra jams herself right next to you and gives you an owlish look. 'What did he say?'
'He likes my coffee,' you tell her with a smug smile. 'Asked what my days off were. I think I passed.'
Sandra stares at you like you grew a new head—albeit a very attractive one. A mixture of bafflement and excitement. 'He complimented your coffee,' she repeats.
'Yeah. Is that so weird? Did he never say anything nice to you?'
Sandra scoffs and waves the whole idea away with both hands. 'No way. He's tested everyone. He doesn't even come in on days Tom or I aren't in, and even then it's like he tolerates what we make him. One time, I saw him sit in that same corner—he always sits there like a fat spider—and after every sip he'd grimace, like this. He drank the whole thing, looking like a miserable little man the entire time. Enfoiré. He never says anything nice, just... Just looks at you, and you can tell how disappointed he is? He's like... His attention on you is...this cold...oily thing and...'
She struggles to find the words. It can't be easy to describe the evils of a man who never does much more than grimace and glower, and you would have laughed if you hadn't experienced the weight of said glower first hand.
'You should have seen the one time he talked to Shay,' she continues. 'I don't know what he told them, but they got so pale I thought they were going to faint. Anyway, if he likes your coffee, be ready. He's going to come in and ask for you by name. If you're on break, he'll wait for you to be back on. He's going to know your roster by heart and only show up for you to make him his special fancy drink.'
You smile, trying to appease her. 'Fine by me, if that makes him happy. Considering all the custies you've already warned me about, there's enough assholes to go around that he can be mine. Tom can have Harry and you can keep Scott off my back.'
'Bruv,' Sandra says in her best imitation of a cockney accent. 'You keep Bouchard off my back, I'll take anyone for you.'
'Isn't he way too young to be the director of an academic institute?' you muse, looking at him over the coffee machine.
'D-don't even think about him like that!' Sandra sputters.
'Like what?'
'Like he's a man. No flirting! He's off limits.'
You know better than to joke that Sandra wants him for herself. Her disgust of the man borders on outright fear. You, on the other hand, have received nothing but compliments so far, and the shadow of threat has passed away. You smirk.
'I said he's young, not cute. Even if he kind of is. But what if I do? You'll have me fired?'
'No, I'll just cry,' she deadpans. 'Make you feel guilty. I seriously don't want him to have excuses to hang around any more than he already does.'
You roll your eyes and move on. The lunch rush hasn't completely tapered off yet. One frightful encounter down, a few more to go.