Archive of Our Own ^beta

Most people assume that Walter Gordon’s nickname ‘Smokey’ comes from excessive smoking. Which he doesn’t actually indulge in because that’s one expensive habit he can live without, thank you. So yeah, those people are wrong. Not that Smokey can hold it against them, the fateful event transpired during the end of his high school time and to be frank, he is glad for every person who hasn’t witnessed him during his not so glorious transformative years.

To those who will listen - which are quite a few because Smokey is nothing if not a good storyteller - he begins the story by claiming that it hadn’t actually been his fault. When he had signed up for chemistry at the tender age of 13, he’d been under the illusion that they would teach him how to set things on fire without them actually burning, and why the can of peaches on his grandma’s kitchen counter tasted disgustingly metallic after he’d accidentally knocked it over. Instead of learning useful stuff like that, all they ever did in class was learning the periodic table by heart and writing down chemical reactions that didn’t even happen in actual life.

To put it mildly, for the young and eager to learn Walter Gordon chemistry class had been a great source of disappointment and frustration. Which wasn’t his fault, so clearly no blame should fall on him. Besides, what kind of chemistry teacher leaves his class unsupervised in the lab during a Monday morning first period class?

If his good friend since middle school, Moe Alley, is present during a retelling of the story, he will immediately call bullshit and make it known that yes, the only one to blame for what happened is Smokey and Smokey alone.

Not that Smokey cares about this disruption, he just keeps going, describing his brilliant plan and its execution in vivid detail.

On that notable Monday, he’d had a few key ingredients at his disposal: a bunsen burner, a pack of coffee grounds that Tab ‘temporarily misplaced’ from the faculty room, and that practical lab equipment that they usually never used in class since their teacher lived up to the ‘old, absent-minded, boring theorist’ stereotype. Because of said teacher, Smokey also had time and opportunity on his side. Paired with his love for the forbidden and disregard towards the unhygienic-bordering-on-hazardous, a dangerous combination.

“This is gonna get us all some really good coffee,” were the words Smokey had uttered, full of faith in his abilities as a classroom barista.

Five minutes after that, there’d been two cups of admittedly drinkable coffee on the table, as well as a huge puddle on the floor from where Tab and Popeye had dumped a bucket of water over Smokey’s burning sweater sleeve.

Their teacher, Mr. Johnson, hadn’t been amused when he entered the room fifteen minutes late to the sight of his students drinking coffee from beakers. He’d thrown an especially sour look to the guy in the back row with the smouldering sleeve and blinding grin.

Now, this incident caused more than just one nickname to be associated with Walter Gordon, but what was ultimately remembered was the way the smell of smoke had lingered on him for the entire rest of the day, and therefore it was ‘Smokey’ that had stuck in the end.

Really, it should’ve been his first clue as to what the future would hold for him. After all, it had been a broad hint that came with more enlightenment than Mr. Johnson ever managed to inspire in his student.

And yet, a few years later, standing in front of the little shop Smokey had just purchased and planned on renovating from a run-down thing into a proper café, he still couldn’t quite believe it. Or maybe that had just been the nagging urge to call up Mr. Johnson and thank the old man for doing a shitty job at teaching.

Tab and Moe had stepped up to him, Tab on the right, Moe on the left, and together they had looked at the dusty windows and the peeling paint of the sign over the door that proclaimed the place to be ‘Bob’s Coffeehouse’.

‘No, you ain’t. Not anymore,’ Smokey had thought to himself, feeling his chest swell with pride.

Without tearing his gaze away from the shop’s front, Tab had given him a pat on the shoulder. “C’mon, Smokey, you’ll get your chance to sing a teary-eyed love song to your new baby. But first we got a lot of work to do.”

In the following months, they found out just how right Tab had been with those words.

(“‘Bastion’,” Smokey says, shaking his head in disbelief as he stares at what Popeye has done to the shop’s sign. “I don’t even know what ‘Bastogne’ is. I wanted it to be called ‘Bastion’.”

“Really?” Popeye draws out the word in exaggerated incredulity. There’s paint on his left cheek and a scratch on his shoulder from when he returned the borrowed ladder to its owner. He squints at the still glistening sign. “And I could’ve sworn you meant ‘Bastogne’, Belgian city, important scene in World War Two.”

With deliberate casualness, he grabs his bag off the sidewalk. He didn’t expect it to be open though, and pens, a bottle of juice, crackers and a book spill onto the concrete.

Smokey catches a glimpse of the book’s title - ‘Battle of the Bulge’ -, which doesn’t ring any bells. Then, turning his eyes back to the sign, he shrugs.

“Fine. Whatever. The less mainstream the better.”

Popeye has to bite his tongue to keep from commenting how that makes no sense. He quickly gathers his things and shoves them back into his bag so he can get out of Smokey’s sight for a few hours. Anything to ensure he doesn’t have to climb on that unsteady ladder again and repaint the sign.)

Getting the shop up and running had cost a lot of time and sweat, as well as the occasional tear or drop of blood. If there is one thing though that Smokey doesn’t do, it’s giving up on something he really, really wants. And at the end of the day, all the work had been worth it.

Even now, after a year of having opened ‘Bastogne’s doors to the admittedly small crowds, Smokey likes to stand behind the counter and let his gaze wander over the assembly of mismatched furniture in the cramped space, the photos on the wall showing the landscapes of the places he and his friends had visited over the years, the chalkboard that lists their menu as well as a random fact of the day (and, sometimes, things drawn by customers, that usually turn out to be either flowers, dicks, or smileys. That’s what you get when the majority of your clientele is of the sleep deprived college student variety.)

Sharing the space with Tab, Popeye and Moe, his friends since the infamous high school days, always gives it a sort of family business feeling, even though the three others only work part-time and don’t share ownership. When Moe hums along to the radio that plays softly through the speakers, when Tab tries for the tenth time to convince Smokey that they absolutely need more than one picture of his dog on the wall, when Popeye complains about the muscle ache in his butt… it feels like home.

The new addition to their group had come in the form of Shifty Powers, the quiet son of the baker down the street, who loves nothing more in the world than making sweet, sweet pastries (which in turn earns him the love of everyone who ever tries his magnificent creations). While at first Smokey merely had had a deal with the Powers that they’d provide him with some baked goods for the afternoon crowd, the deal turned into a permanent employment for Shifty after his dad’s retirement.

(“Hey, don’t hang your head, baker boy”, Smokey says as he opens another beer for Shifty the night he hears the news of the bakery closing its doors for good.

Scratching at the bottle’s label, Shifty vehemently shakes his head. “I ain’t no baker, my dad’s the baker. Got up every morning long before sunrise to make the first batch o’ buns. A real baker. I only make cakes and the like.”

“Yeah right, pal”, Smokey replies unfazed with a hand resting on Shifty’s shoulder.)

The steady supply of baked goods had luckily increased their amount of customers; Smokey remains adamant that the newly installed free WiFi can’t have been the only reason.

For better or worse, though, Smokey has always cared most about whether he’s happy with his little shop, this little corner of the world that he can call his own. He’s drinking from his cup of coffee just as Moe gets to the punchline of his joke so he’s trying his damndest to keep the liquid in his mouth, but he knows. He knows that yeah, he’s happy. And that’s just as sweet a thing as Shifty’s new strawberry tart.

|||

Winter is always a good time for ‘Bastogne’ because there’s nothing better than leaving the icy wind for a nice hot drink in an equally nice coffee shop. Everyone knows that this is a Basic Rule of Life, and for Smokey it means making good business, which is always a plus.

Sure, on this day in the mid-December barely half the tables are occupied despite it being lunch time, but that still makes it a good day in Smokey’s book. Perhaps it’s because exam time is over and all the students are catching up on sleep. Or maybe that’s just Tab and Popeye, Smokey can’t be sure.

He’s refilling the jar with the sugar packets and muses about how lucky he is that four months ago he finally got the apartment he’s had his eye on since he opened ‘Bastogne’. It’s situated a mere three houses down the street, giving Smokey the chance to hit ‘snooze’ a few more times and make it to the shop before losing body parts to the cold. Above that, it’s perfect in size: big enough to fit all the stuff he should’ve thrown away long ago when he moved out of his parents’ house, yet not too spacious to feel like there’s something missing, empty space that needs to be filled. If it ever does feel that way, Smokey usually just walks the hundred steps to ‘Bastogne’ or peeks out his front door in the hope that maybe his neighbour’s calico cat is just waiting for him to indulge her with a bit of tender loving care and yogurt.

It’s a good thing Alton More doesn’t mind sharing his feline roommate, otherwise Smokey might have to look into getting a four-legged sidekick himself and that’s exactly the kind of effort he’d rather avoid. As compensation, More gets a lifelong discount on Smokey’s coffee, so really, it’s all working out just fine for everyone involved.

Smokey’s just about to move on from the sugar packets to the paper napkins when the bell over the door chimes and in comes a worryingly pale guy with jet black hair that stands up wildly and not unlike a bird’s nest. With a step as brisk as the chill that creeps in before the door falls shut again, he walks up to the counter, blowing air on his ungloved hands, and seriously, what kind of madman faces that cold without proper winter attire?

The look in the guy’s eyes reminds Smokey of a timid deer looking around for potential dangers, except it’s not fear or shyness that bores through Smokey once the guy looks at him directly. It’s a sort of urgency that’s even more noticeable in the guy’s voice once he speaks.

“Hey, you got scissors? I really need a pair, sharp ones, and fast.”

And okay, this is not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened here. There was the time some drunk guy came in right before closing time at 10pm asking for a rubber boat because he wanted to row across the Niagara. So asking for scissors as if someone’s life depended on the tool barely makes it into the top ten list of strange encounters. Although the accent, clearly not from this part of the country, might give it some bonus points.

Pretending to grant the question - or rather request; despite the bambi aesthetic the guy has a strangely commanding voice on him - some consideration, Smokey hums thoughtfully. “Do we have scissors? I know we got coffee, this being a coffee shop and all, but if you wanna, I can totally ring up my grandma. Old lady’s a big fan of sewing and -”

“Listen,” Bambi guy leans closer, looking impressively menacing, “I got no time for playin’ ‘round, there was an accident down the street and I really need some damn scissors to cut a pant leg open, so if you could kindly get on that…”

So, a life or death situation after all. This incident is steadily climbing up the Strange Encounters list.  

Because he likes his conscience light and assisted-murder-free, Smokey quickly makes his way to the back of the shop where he has his small office to get the guy what he’s asking for. He even gets the big pair, and the delight that flits over Bambi guy’s face for a split second upon seeing them is quite a sight for sore eyes, Smokey is man enough to admit that.

“Bring them back and you get free coffee!” he yells at the guy’s retreating back as he practically runs out of the shop.

It kind of makes him want to shake his head and mutter something about “youths these days” but he refrains from doing so because the guy’s probably doing some life-saving doctor stuff right now and Smokey knows that’s the type of people this world needs and who deserve nothing but respect.

The woman sitting at the table at the window waves him over to order a slice of Shifty’s apple-cinnamon tart and draw him into a conversation about the joys of sewing, leaving Smokey no time to mourn the possible loss of his good pair of scissors.

To Smokey’s surprise, the suspected scissor thief returns just twenty minutes later, now much calmer and with an air of having successfully done his job.

“Hey,” he greets Smokey again, this time with a sheepish smile as he holds out the scissors. “Sorry for being rude earlier. Tensions were running high.”

Smokey shrugs. “Whatever man, glad my scissors could help save a life.” He squints. “You did… save the injured, right? I didn’t accidentally lend you a murder weapon or something?”

The guy smirks, although his eyes look tired. There are dark shadows underneath them that Smokey hadn’t noticed before, and the red-tipped nose but otherwise pale skin doesn’t really aid in making the guy look like he isn’t two seconds from keeling over in a frozen mess. “He’ll live. Paramedics were there quickly, I just did the first aid.”

Smokey wants to comment on how he’s surrounded by people who like to downplay their great and glorious deeds when he notices the blood spatters on the guy’s hands and the metal of the scissor blades. Well, this just won’t do.

“Hey, why don’t you tell me what kinda coffee you like and I’ll fix you some while you get rid of that,” he nods at the blood stains.

Judging by the confused look Doctor guy gives his own hands, he hadn’t noticed them either.

When he looks back up at Smokey, he seems even more exhausted. “As good as that sounds, I don’t got enough money with me.”

Smokey makes a dismissive hand gesture. “Hey man, I told you before, you bring the scissors back, you get free coffee. You look like you need it. Besides,” he adds with a grin, “we can just keep it in mind. Maybe there’ll come a time where I’m in need of medical aid. Owed favours an’ all that.”

The guy nods. “I can live with that. But you should know I’m not a certified doctor, just a med student.”

“Details,” Smokey waves off, which earns him a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Now, what d’you want?”

The guy orders a simple large black coffee - Smokey is not surprised by that - and although they don’t do that fancy but complicated writing-names-on-the-cups thing, Smokey asks for his name (calling him Doctor or Bambi guy is just weird when he’s willing to put his life into the guy’s hands).

“Eugene. Eugene Roe,” is the reply, given with a warm smile, before he disappears in the direction Smokey points him to to clean himself up.

Eugene reemerges just as his coffee is finished, and Smokey wonders briefly if he should put ‘magic’ on his mental list of abilities the med student seems to possess but then he’s too busy watching in fascination as Eugene dumps sugar packet after sugar packet into the black hot liquid.

“I’d love to stay a while,” Roe says apologetically in that distinct accent as he carefully puts the lid on the cup, “but I gotta get to class. Which I might actually survive now, thanks to this.” He raises the cup.

“Happy to help.” Smokey grins back at him. “Go learn how to save my ass should the need arise.”

Eugene huffs a short, dry laugh. He gives a small wave and turns around to leave.

“Feel free to come back any time,” Smokey calls, and quickly backpedals. “Well, not any. We’re open from 8am to 9pm on weekdays, and 11am to 10pm on weekends. But during those times you’re definitely welcome.”

With an amused quirk to his lips, Eugene nods. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

In a skewed sense of déjà vu, Smokey watches Eugene walk out the door - again -, back into the bitterly cold weather, still without gloves, still visibly exhausted, but at least with something that’ll warm him up inside and hopefully energize him.

Smokey nods satisfied to himself. Instead of wanting to curse youngsters, he feels like he’s done the world a favour. If Moe were here, he’d probably say something like “this warms my cold espresso heart”. Since he isn’t here, Smokey contents himself with whistling to the mellow pop song that’s sounding through the speaker system and refilling the sugar packet jar. Again.

|||

Three days later finds Smokey, Tab and Popeye trying to put up some festive decorations. Since December is well half over, they’re about two weeks too late with that, but there had been a dispute over whether it should be Christmas themed or more inclusive. So, like the responsible adults that they are, they’d put off making a decision for a few too many days.

At least until Shifty had come back from a weekend at his parents’ with an armful of white painted pine cones. Which he threatened to throw at people if no one did something about the outdated fall decoration, consisting of pumpkins that had seen the prime of their time weeks ago and cardboard squirrels that Moe’s niece had helped them make. Since no one doubted that Shifty would be able to hit all the weak spots on their bodies, even with painted pine cones as projectiles, Smokey, Popeye and Tab had taken down the old decorations, with Shifty’s help. Naturally, they couldn’t keep themselves from getting into a heated debate about what constituted as ‘winter themed decorations appropriate for a coffee shop that wants to give off a christmas vibe while remaining open-minded’.

As luck would have it, Moe had dropped by with his niece at his hand because she wanted one ‘Bastogne’s baked goods for after school. Realizing that there were redecorations in the making, her eyes first lit up, then turned pleading and the size of coffee cups. They’d decided to recruit her for the winter decoration round as well, which had lead to a lot of squealing, hugged legs, and a Sunday evening spent sitting in a circle while Allison told everyone what to do and to be careful with her newly acquired crafts set, including pink scissors with dragons drawn on them.

The only thing she couldn’t participate in was getting the whole stuff set up around the shop, but Smokey’s confident that he, Tab and Popeye can do that without her stellar supervising.

It’s barely nine in the morning and the early morning crowd’s already come and gone, save for one girl with a laptop in the back corner. With her headphones on and a look of deep concentration on her face, she doesn’t appear bothered by the three guys bustling around the shop in an attempt to design it more season-appropriate. Well, two guys, technically, since Popeye has disappeared into the back and has yet to return from his journey to fetch them all some of Shifty’s freshly baked gingerbread cookies.

“I’m sorry to say this, Smoke,” Tab says suddenly from his place on the ladder where he’s trying to stick cardboard snowflakes to the window without getting double-sided tape all over places it doesn’t belong on, “but you might want to look into hiring another barista. Pretty sure I won’t have time - shit, why is this stuff so sticky - won’t have time in the new semester. In its last phase, studying veterinary medicine is pretty brutal.”

Smokey’s only half paying attention, distracted by the little snowman made out of styrofoam that he’s put on the counter and contemplates giving a smiley face. It seems like a good enough idea.

“Did I hear you right,” he asks muffled around the pen cap between his teeth, “that you want to quit?” Frowning in concentration (and emotional pain, because did one of his best friends of eight years just say he was going to leave him?), he adorns the snowman with a toothy grin.

“No,” Tab says, finally getting the first snowflake on the window. “Just have to cut back a bit. Maybe two days instead of five or something. You can’t get rid of me that easily, man.” He looks down from his vantage point on the ladder. “Hey, nice work on the snowman.”

Smokey takes a step back to examine his work. “Yeah, I think so too. Although it’s not as good as the plan we had for Gustav.”

With a mournful sigh he looks at Gustav, the beloved coffee machine. The first thing they’d done was giving Gustav a Santa hat, a beard made out of cotton pads, and a pair of extra big googly eyes that Smokey had unearthed from his grandma’s arts and crafts drawer. They’d taken enough pictures of it to wallpaper the small office room with them.

Unfortunately, they had to take the beard off pretty soon afterwards, because while it looked remarkably fashionable, it’s unlikely that their customers appreciate bits of cotton in their coffee. For a second they’d contemplated sticking it to Shifty’s smooth face. Cotton in their baked goods seemed equally bad though, so after a bit of trying out different locations, the beard had ended up getting stuck on the jar with the sugar packets.

Smokey wants to go back again and ask Tab for further explanation on the whole not-quite-quitting thing but the opportunity is snatched from his hands by the bell over the door, signalling the arrival of new customers with a clear, high ringing.

The first of the two men who step inside is familiar, the other one is leaning heavily on crutches and doesn’t look older than 20, so maybe ‘man’ isn’t the right word here. Both look slightly chilled but it’s nothing compared to the bone deep freeze the first guy had displayed last time.

“Hey Eugene,” Smokey greets cheerfully. “Happy to see you back already.”

Roe nods at him. “Likewise.” He’s looking a lot better healthwise this time around. There’s a twinkle in his eyes and his skin isn’t quite as ghostly pale. He steps aside to make room for his companion. “This is -”

“Skinny!” comes Popeye’s delighted yell from behind the counter. Nearly dropping the plate with the promised gingerbread cookies in his haste to get to the newcomers, he scurries across the room to where the small group is still standing at the door.

The guy - and Smokey refuses to believe that ‘Skinny’ is his real name - almost drops his crutches as he tries to give Popeye a one-armed hug, face lit up with a bright grin.

As it turns out, the two know each other from a history class where they had bonded over shared enthusiasm about wars in the past century, especially the Second World War. It’s not the first time that Smokey is a little taken aback by his friend’s interests, but he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on so he doesn’t mention it.

“This the guy you needed my scissors for?” he asks Roe. The two watch in amusement as Popeye guides Skinny to one of the couches in the corner to exchange opinions about some book or another they’d had to read for class. It’s difficult to keep up with their excited chatter but it sure is nice to witness.

“Yep,” Eugene confirms. “Just thought I’d introduce him to the people that’ve played a part in his rescue.”

Smokey puts a hand over his heart. “How thoughtful. If you count on my soft heart to offer free coffee again, I’ll have to disappoint you though. I have a business to run, and as much as I’d like to sustain myself on nothing but peace and love, that’s not how it goes.”

“But Smokey,” Popeye pipes up, apparently not engrossed enough to miss Smokey’s words, “they are -”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Nah, no hard feelings here,” Eugene smiles. He’s very quickly becoming Smokey’s favourite. “We didn’t just come here for coffee and expressing our gratitude.” With Smokey on his heels, he walks over to where Skinny and Popeye are lounging on the couch. “You wanna ask him, Sisk?”

Smokey looks from Eugene to Skinny, raising an eyebrow expectantly. He loves talking to his customers, especially when they’re as great as these guys, but he’s got reindeers to stick to the chalkboard and stars that need to be drawn on it.

Sisk swallows, looking up at Smokey with big bambi eyes (and this is just getting ridiculous, Smokey thinks. He’s running a café, not some kind of deer park for orphaned fawns that need a warm place to stay where they can enjoy the taste of roasted beans.)

“Uh, I was wondering,” Skinny begins, glancing to Eugene for encouragement, “if you needed another barista? I got some training from when I was working at Starbucks, which I hated so, so much, and I could start next week, my doc says by then I’ll be able to walk properly again, so…” he trails off, perhaps in the hope that his eyes will do the rest of the work. He’s almost as good as Moe’s niece, just with less ribbons in his hair and minus the swishing skirts.

Smokey turns around and finds Tab already looking at him from where he’s sat down on the ladder. They don’t even need a word or a nod, both knowing exactly what the other’s thinking.

Turning back to Skinny, Smokey grins. “I think we got something for you, my friend.”

The answering smile is blinding.

“Good,” Eugene interrupts before the moment can escalate into love proclamations or someone actually turning blind. “This is a coffee shop, if I remember correctly. So how about you get us some of that stuff so we can drink to this development?”

Smokey happily complies. The reindeers and snowflakes will have to wait another while.

|||

Everyone seems to still be recovering from their Christmas celebrations, because at 8:30 in the morning of the 27th, ‘Bastogne’ is completely empty. Not one person has dropped by, not even to get some coffee for on the way to the store to return ill-considered presents. Smokey doesn’t know whether to feel disappointed or angry at this kind of injustice. He hates waking up early for nothing.

Yes, actually he’s mostly just tired as hell, thanks to the early hour and having spent the holidays with his aunt Bernice. Bernice makes a mean apple crumble but also loves to go on and on about all the ‘nice young ladies’ in her neighbourhood, some of which ‘would be wonderful housewives’. She has the gift to steamroll through her speech, completely ignorant of the fact that Smokey couldn’t care less and instead of being all enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying - what the hell, Bernice - hides behind the mountain of whipped cream on his plate.

“Family,” he grumbles into his latte macchiato.

“Yeah, I know,” Shifty sighs happily from where he’s filling up the display case with fresh gingerbread cinnamon cupcakes. Smokey wonders if there are rules on how much cinnamon is too much because he feels like they’ve reached that point five days ago.

“My dad,” Shifty continues, oblivious to Smokey’s suffering, “he makes the best roast duck, nothing compares to it. And then my ma, oh, she -”

Before Shifty can gush over whatever it is that his mother is so good at, the door opens and in comes the familiar figure of one Eugene Roe, with a crutch-less Skinny in tow and a guy whose face is half hidden by a bright red scarf that nearly matches his ginger hair.

Immediately, Smokey feels his mood lift.

“Eugene, my man, good to see you!” he calls across the room after the med student gives him a little wave and shakes some snow out of his dark hair. “You here to drop Skinny off for his first day of work?”

The group of three makes their way towards the counter where they’re greeted quietly by the plate of leftover Christmas cookies that Shifty slides over the counter for them.

“Something like that,” Eugene smiles back, taking one of the offered cookies. Then he gestures to the new guy whose red nose could easily compete with Roe’s. “This is Heffron.” The guy - Heffron being his last name, Smokey guesses - rolls his eyes but waves jauntily. Then sneezes mightily.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, voice thick. “Got a bit of a cold.” He blows his nose with the tissue Eugene holds out to him. “But I’m not gonna say no to delicious cookies for breakfast. May I?”

“Be my guest,” Shifty says. “I’m always glad when I don’t have to throw away perfectly good food just because of regulations.”

Heffron makes a scandalized noise and takes two cookies. “Hell no, we can’t have that.”

Smokey watches with interest as Roe gives his happily crunching friend a fond look. He wishes he could help himself to some cookies too, but honestly, after the past three days he’s had enough Christmas food to last him until next year. Instead, he turns to face Skinny who rocks back on his heels. Good to see that his leg seems fine again.

“So,” Smokey starts, “first day. You nervous? Don’t be, we’re all friends here and as you can see,” he makes a sweeping motion that encompasses the glaring emptiness of the shop, “there’s not much to do.”

“He can start by making some coffee for us,” Eugene says before Skinny can throw in a comment.

“Sure thing, Doc.” Smokey makes an inviting gesture. Come on over, young grasshopper, and show me what those Starbucks fellows taught you.”

Excitedly, Skinny hurries around the counter to come up next to Smokey and Shifty. The friendly smile he puts on looks impressively genuine.

“Good morning, fine gentlemen, welcome to ‘Bastogne’. What can I get you?”

Eugene nudges Heffron who’s just finishing off his second cookie. Brushing some crumbles off his mouth with the back of his hand, he squints up at the menu on the chalkboard above the counter.

“You payin’, Gene?”

The med student heaves a mock heavy sigh. “Only ‘cause you’re sick, Heffron.”

Heffron sniffles and grins, eyes still roaming over his options. “Don’t fool yourself, we all know it’s because of my brilliant charm and pancake making abilities.”

Roe ducks his head, and fails spectacularly to hide the faint blush on his cheeks. “Just choose your drink, Heffron.”

“Yeah yeah. Oh, can I get a vanilla latte?” He looks first at Roe, then at Skinny.

“Sure can do,” Skinny assures. “And you, Doc?”

“Just black, thank you. And I’m afraid we’re not gonna stay, so to-go, please.”

“Of course, of course. Vanilla latte and black coming right up.”

As Skinny gets on typing the order into the register under Smokey’s watchful eye, Shifty turns to Heffron.

“Hey, if you liked those cookies, I have another batch in the back that I don’t know what to do with. You want to come with and maybe take some off my hands?”

Heffron’s face lights up in delight (kind of like the French toast Moe had tried to make last week, if Smokey were inclined to draw comparisons). “As if I could say no to that. You okay with waiting here alone, Gene?”

Roe waves them off, his eyes not leaving them until they’re out of sight. Leaning over the counter, he lowers his voice. “Hey, I know you don’t write names on the cups, but could you make an exception?”

Since Skinny seems to be doing just fine, Smokey dares to raise an inquisitive eyebrow at Eugene.

“Why? And what’s in it for us?”

Roe considers for a moment, then shakes his head. “Don’t think you’d understand. But I’d give you extra tip.”

“Ah, bribery.” The way Smokey says it it sounds like the birthday present he got after five years of constant pleading. “Oh capitalism, your dollar bills smell so sweet when I hold them in my hands.” When Eugene crinkles his nose, he laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can do that.” He grabs the two still empty cups right out of Skinny’s hands and a purple sharpie from the pen jar underneath the counter. “So what do you want me to write? Eugene for you, obviously. What about your friend?”

With a smile that Smokey can’t quite decipher, Roe gives him the name and while Smokey scribbles them on the cups, there’s a dollar bill landing in the tip jar. “Like music in my ears,” Smokey mumbles.

Skinny’s happy to take the cups back and finish preparing the order. As if the sound of the filled cups being put on the counter and the register opening with a ping to swallow Eugene’s money had some magical effect, Shifty and Heffron reappear, the latter carrying a tupperware container.

“Look, Gene!” Raising the container like the world’s greatest trophy while sounding as if someone’s stuck a clothespin on his his nose, Heffron grins at his friend. “I got enough to last us a week. We can lock ourselves in my apartment, maybe even invite Spina and Renee, and eat nothing but cookies for days!”

“Sounds great”, Eugene says dryly. Smokey has the suspicion that he’s sick of Christmas food as well.

“Now where’s my coffee?”

When Roe hands Heffron the cup with his latte he accepts it with the excitement not unlike that of a puppy that’s found its favourite toy. That is, until his eyes catch sight of the name on the cup.

“‘Edward’? ‘Edward’?! Are you serious? Christ, Gene, how often do I gotta tell you to call me ‘Babe’? What do I have to do to make you see sense?”

Smokey’s eyebrows shoot up while Skinny hides a laugh behind his hand.

Completely unfazed by this, Eugene takes the cookie container out of Edward’s - Heffron’s? Babe’s? - hands and grabs his own coffee cup.

“All I ask of you is to get well from that cold.”

“Yeah, right,” the ginger mutters into his latte, turning his back to the rest of the group and walking towards the exit, “so I can make more pancakes, and bring coffee to you when I leave for work and you got your nose in your books even though it’s too late, and…” The rest is too quiet and mumbly to decipher from behind the counter.

Eugene looks at his shoes, looking all rejected and sad and if Smokey hadn’t already given the guy his coffee, he’d promptly offer one in an effort to cheer him up.

“No,” Roe says quietly to no one in particular except maybe his shoes. “So I can finally get up the courage to -” With a jolt he seems to realize just where he is and that there are two baristas who are very, very interested in his personal business standing in earshot.

He smiles sheepishly. “I better get going. Don’t want him to stumble and burn himself when there’s no one ‘round.” With a nod to both Smokey and Skinny, he quickly follows Heffron out the door.

The door’s barely shut before Skinny turns to Smokey. “Ten bucks say they’re dating.”

Smokey gives him a ‘barista, please’ look. That is to say, he can’t believe what he just heard.

“You kidding me? They’re clearly not. For one, they’d be holding hands, they’re so obviously the handholding type it’s ridiculous. Second of all - no, I’m not doing this, the list is too long. And I’m not taking your money, that’d be too easy and it’s your first day.” He thinks for a moment. “We can bet on when we think they will start dating.”

It’s a good thing there are no customers around, because what follows is a lengthy discussion that even Shifty partakes in, and when Moe comes in half an hour later and they have to relay the whole incident to him, coffee is pretty much the last thought on their mind.

|||

To everyone’s relief, Skinny’s initiation into their group goes a lot easier than expected.

They’d feared that not only his age - with 21 years, Skinny is the youngest of them - but especially their friendship that has brought and held them tightly together throughout their high school and young adult lives would keep Skinny in a constant state of being the sixth wheel. Unlike the others he just hadn’t seen them at their best and worst (although there’s a still ongoing discussion about what exactly qualifies as ‘worst’. Is it seeing one of the others nakedly running away from a swarm of bees, or is it catching someone tearing up over Katherine Heigl rom-com while lying in a hammock in nothing but soccer-patterned boxer shorts and a Hawaiian shirt?)

What certainly helps is getting together on the Sunday night before New Year’s Eve and sharing stories and anecdotes while slowly making their way through Tab’s booze stash. It’s then that they realize that Skinny isn’t so much a mere addition to their group, but rather the piece that had been missing without the five of them knowing it. Instead of being the useless spare wheel lying in the back of the truck, Skinny proves to be the metaphorical cherry that, put on top, completes the cake.

“We need a name for us,” Popeye slurs after his fourth beer, waving around with his hand and indicating, with a bit of imagination, the six of them in all their glory. The statement is received with cheers from where Smokey, Tab and Skinny are sprawled half on the floor and half on the couch, and Shifty and Moe deserting their cracker pyramid in favour of searching for pen and paper.

Whether it's because of the alcohol slowing down their thinking, or because it actually is that hard, finding a name everyone can agree on is more difficult than integrating Skinny into their midst.

Shifty vetoes ‘Grinders’.

(“But Shift, we’re baristas!”

“Well, I ain’t! Is this your way of saying I- I don’t belong into-”

“Oh come on, stop it with the puppy eyes, you know that’s bullshit.”).

No one is particularly fond of ‘Roasters’, and Moe finds ‘Gang’ too extreme.

(“I know Shifty can probably amputate a fly by throwing a whisk at it, but does he do it? No, because he’s a sweet little guy who feels guilty just thinking about it.”

Shifty nods gravely. “That fly hasn’t done anything to me, why would - why would I harm it?”)

In the end they settle on ‘The Band’, at least temporarily.

(“The Band of Baristas!” Popeye exclaims excitedly.

“But…” Shifty starts, “but what about me?”

Immediately coming to his rescue, Tab slings an arm around his shoulders. ‘The Band of Baristas and the Baker Boy’. Better?”

“Dude,” Skinny throws in, not fully in control of his consonants anymore, “that is way too long. Like. Waaaaaay.” With a gesture that nearly lands his arm in Moe’s face, he tries to show just how much too long it it. “We’ll go with The Band for short. This ain’t a Fall Out Boy song title, fellas.”)

Chances are they’ll come up with a better one, once it isn’t two in the morning and they get back their ability to string three sentences together and end up with something that makes sense. And once it occurs to anyone that none of them is actually capable of playing an instrument.

All in all, it’s a pretty good night.

||

What also helps with the integration process is the impromptu game night two days after that.

Because Smokey likes to not only pretend but also act like an employer and businessman who’s making a name for himself in the actual real world, he schedules an end of the year meeting with his workforce to discuss the year’s tops and flops, what’s been working well and what needs improving. Not that they do that pretty much every day already, in person, on the phone or, on exceptionally bored occasions, via paper airplanes. Smokey just wants something official, is all.

Maybe sending out the invitation via their new group chat, now including Skinny, hadn’t been such a good idea, though. Expecting professionalism to come from a group called ‘The Band’ whose icon showed Popeye lying on the counter of ‘Bastogne’ in an unmistakable ‘Draw Me Like One Of Your French Girls’ pose might’ve been a tad too optimistic. Using “the band needs to get together asap” as formal request instead of sending out proper letters three days in advance probably hadn’t been the most brilliant idea either.

So yeah, Smokey should’ve seen it coming. And yet he’s still surprised when he finds himself on Shifty’s living room floor, leaning back against Tab’s legs on the couch and getting crumbs of M&M cookies all over himself because eating and yelling at Princess Peach to  drive the fuck faster isn’t the smartest combination of activities.

Shifty’s coming out of the kitchen with a new batch of cookies. To get back to his seat on the couch he has to kick Popeye’s legs out of the way and climb over Skinny, who isn’t making that task very easy with his full-body driving movements that mostly end up with Yoshi crashing into bananas or driving off the lane. After some struggling and nearly getting an elbow in his ribs, Shifty’s squeezed back into the space between Skinny and Tab.

“Hey Smokey,” he asks, reaching for a cookie before setting the plate down on the coffee table, much to the delight of four grabby hands. “Why did The Band have to get together?”

“Has anyone realized,” Moe interjects, handing his controller to Popeye so he’s got both hands free for cookies, “that none of us can play an instrument?”

Smokey shakes his head. “You can sing, Moe. That totally counts.”

“Aw,” Skinny makes while using the break in the game to shove a cookie into his mouth. “You didn’t strike me as a choir boy, Alley.”

After giving Skinny a look that promises shells and bananas by the dozen, Moe flips through the Mario Kart menu to choose the next road (or, to say it with Shifty’s words, battlefield). “Dark times we do not talk about, Sisk.”

“Too bad,” Smokey grins, “your heavenly vocal chords could’ve brought in some money if only you didn’t keep it confined to showers and drunken karaoke nights.”

“Yeah,” Tab agrees, getting ready for the next round of the game by leaning forward and resting his arms on Smokey’s head. “You could sing on the street or something. Get us some money. I’m sure people would pay for that beautiful voice of yours.”

Moe sighs. “Alright alright, guys. I got it. I can put singing on my list of skills. No need to overdo it. I believe the young Powers has asked a question of importance though.” He turns to Smokey, raising an eyebrow. “Have we gathered here tonight to witness and celebrate my pay raise?”

Smokey snorts. “Yeah right buddy, please tell me why I should give your sorry ass even more money. For standing around ‘Bastogne’ about as useful as a breadbox from IKEA and scaring away customers with your mediocre visage?”

While the others laugh, Moe protests with an indignant “hey!” and kicking Smokey’s ankle with his sock-clad foot. Except there’s a giant hole in the sock, causing his big toe to poke out and coming into contact with Smokey’s skin, and it feels like Smokey’s just touched an ice pole.

“Jesus, Alley,” he complains, bumping his shoulder into Moe’s, “fix your damn socks or buy some new ones, I don’t need your cold limbs falling off where other people might see it.”

“See, this is why I need that pay raise!”

Moe shoves back, even lets go of his controller to have his left hand free and make Smokey tip over. It probably would’ve escalated into an actual fight if Shifty hadn’t put his hands on their shoulders.

“Settle down, guys. I only bought this coffee table two months ago, I don’t need you breaking it.” He waits until the grumbling has calmed down, then leans back and asks, “so why did you want to meet, Smokey?”

Tearing his eyes away from the TV screen where Princess Peach is currently struggling mightily to get herself out of a mud pit, Smokey looks over his right shoulder at his friends. The movement makes it impossible for Tab’s arms to stay on his head and when they fall down to his shoulders, Smokey nearly gets a black eye from the controller. Over Tab’s arm he sees Shifty having tucked his feet under Skinny to keep them warm while Skinny’s punching his controller like a madman. It doesn’t seem to bother Popeye in the slightest that Skinny’s enthusiastic motions mean he gets jostled every now and again. It also doesn’t seem to bother Moe that Popeye’s deposited his cookies on Moe’s leg, or that after their almost-fight Smokey’s side is pressed against Moe’s.

Smokey makes a dismissive gesture. “Nah, nevermind. Wasn’t that important.”

And then he has to pay really close attention to getting Peach over the finish line because otherwise Moe will win and that just won’t do.

|||

Smokey likes New Year’s just as much as the next guy who likes having a valid reason to drink alcohol (a reason that has nothing to do with drowning sorrows or something like that) and enjoy a bit of partying with some friends. What he hates, however, is having to sit down and, instead of breathing in the fresh atmosphere of new beginnings and possibilities, getting smothered by paperwork.

Which is why on January 2nd at 10am he’s been in the small cramped office of ‘Bastogne’ - that is really more of a closet than an actual room - for almost two hours. There are a lot of things Smokey Gordon is passionate about. The poem he wrote in 9th grade after Tab had gotten punched - accidentally - in the face during their class camping trip (how a sleeping bag could make one look like bear and how someone’s first reaction to that could be throwing punches was, in retrospect, beyond all people involved). He’s passionate about his creative writing awards, being his own boss, getting free baked goods from Shifty, and of course Gustav, his first coffee machine that he tinkered with and improved all on his own.

And then there’s ‘passionately not looking’ at the mountain of files he’s got to look at. Drawing little cartoon bears protecting a cartoon baby deer from the greedy claws of an eagle (at least that’s what the arrows pointing at the different shapes say) is just so much more important than poring over documents.

As has often been the case in the past, Shifty comes to his rescue.

Poking his head in through the perpetually open door, he greets with a “hey Smokey”, voice characteristically soft and steady.

Smokey might be a little too enthusiastic in throwing his pen down and getting up from his chair.

“Yes, Shifty, what is it, what can I do?” He hopes his eyes aren’t as pleading as he sounds.

Jerking his head, Shifty motions to the front of the shop. “You got customers. Special ones, in fact, since your med student brought ‘em here.”

Looks like his day is just taking a 180° turn; Shifty is a true godsend.

“Eugene is here?” With a shooing gesture to make Shifty step back and let him through, Smokey is about to leave the office when Shifty shakes his head.

“No, he isn’t. Said he’s just finished a night shift and needs to pass out preferably in a bed, not a coffee shop.”

Smokey feels his good mood drop again. He pulls a disappointed face and doesn’t feel as eager to shoulder past Shifty as before, although he still does it. He’s got work to do after all.

Over his shoulder, he asks, “and he didn’t even care to at least say hello?”

Shifty, who’s following close behind, shrugs. “Guy looked really tired, I don’t think your feelings of betrayal are justified.”

Of course, he does have a point there. It’s not like Eugene is their new best buddy or anything, just a really nice customer who likes to save people’s lives in his free time and has dared to come back after his first taste of ‘Bastogne’s brand of coffee and insanity.

“Still,” Smokey mutters under his breath. He wants to ask who these people are that the med student had brought them as a weak consolation prize for his own absence, but when he arrives at the counter there’s no need for that.

The ginger haired of the two men is sitting at one of the tables near the windows, intently studying the menu card. With the laptop bag next to him and the way he makes sitting upright with good posture look natural and easy, he has an air of authority about him that should not be possible for someone with a dry leaf stuck to the back of his simple gray sweater.

Since the coat over the back of the man’s chair suggests that the leaf hadn’t been in its current place upon entering the shop, Smokey lets his gaze flit to the other man in front of the display case, inspecting today’s offering of apple and almond crumble, cranberry muffins and the spiced banana rum cake Shifty was really excited about trying out for the first time this morning.

To Smokey’s amazement, the man both has the aura of a university professor as well as a vibe that says ‘I don’t like throwing around daddy’s heap of money because I like my independence but I will do it if it nonverbally communicates “fuck you”’. Or how else is Smokey supposed to interpret the faded navy blue ‘Yale’ sweater and the almost threadbare blue jeans? And not only the man himself seems to be a fan of independence, his facial hair does too. The eyebrows are certainly impressive, and along with the beard that doesn’t look intentional but like a natural consequence of just not caring enough to make the unnecessary effort of shaving, he looks like he was forcibly rolled out of bed and dragged here by his friend.

“Dick, do they at least have Irish coffee? They only got some cake with rum and I’m not about that.”

Wow, the guy’s voice certainly matches his exterior.

Without looking up from the menu, the ginger dryly retorts, “remember your manners, Nix, and ask them yourself.”

This gets Eyebrow guy to at least acknowledge Smokey’s presence with a look and a short laugh. “Hey, sorry, didn’t see you there. Any chance you can get me something with Vat 69 in there?”

Smokey blinks, then narrows his eyes. “Apologies, mister high maintenance, but that’s a bit too topshelf for us.” In his periphery, he can see Eyebrow guy’s friend crack a smile, which is more encouraging than it probably should be. “If you want, I can give you the address of a liquor store right around the corner?”

Turning his back to Smokey and walking to the table the two men had claimed, the guy - Nix? - waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, don’t bother, I know where it is.” He flops down none too gently on his seat, earning a warning look from his friend.

Mentally sighing, Smokey grabs the notepad and pen from underneath the counter and walks over to them.

“How come a perfectly respectable guy like Eugene Roe thought it was a good idea to send you to my fine establishment? No offense,” he says, addressing the politely smiling ginger, and come to think of it these two are one of the oddest pair Smokey’s ever had the fortune of meeting.

When Nix raises his eyebrows in momentary questioning, Smokey is pleasantly surprised to find out they can look even more impressive. In the end, Nix apparently comes to the decision to let that comment slide.

“We know him from when he saved one of our friend’s life, and he knew we needed a quiet, neutral ground to go over some plans and personal business stuff.” He looks around the shop. “Preferably somewhere with few people. No offense,” he adds with a fake innocent smile. Then he suddenly turns to his friend. “Did you just kick me under the table like my mother used to do when we had father’s colleagues over for dinner?”

His friend ignores him in favour of turning to Smokey with an apologetic look. “He hasn’t had coffee yet.”

“Well,” Smokey replies, clicking the pen and glad he isn’t forced to defend his life work (that could’ve gotten ugly, he’s aware his shop isn’t exactly the most successful business but there is a lot of love and sweat and work in this project and he’s not going to let some guy in a bad mood trample over that), “then we best get to it. What can I get you?”

The two make their order - coffee and muffins for both of them - and start spreading out papers over the table and talking in slightly hushed voices as soon as Smokey turns his back to them. Mostly, this means that Smokey keeps throwing glances their way while making the coffee and putting the muffins on plates.

When the drinks and food are ready, he piles everything on his tray and carries it over, satisfied to see that the men had at least the foresight to leave enough space for the plates and cups.

With spy-like stealth, Smokey steals a few closer looks at the big paper in the middle of the table while trying to approach as inconspicuously as possible. It looks suspiciously like the blueprint of a building, so of course Smokey’s mind jumps to the first likely conclusion: criminals. He frowns worriedly, not too fond of the thought of serving thieves or burglars or the like in his righteous and upright place.

“No, Dick, we do need that fence around the garden. Or do you want our dog to run away?”

Hearing Impressive Eyebrows guy say those words makes Smokey breathe a little easier and they smoothe out the frown. That doesn’t sound like criminals. More like a couple intending to build a house. Which would explain why they needed a ‘quiet and neutral ground’ to discuss this matter. Not that Smokey has any real experience with this kind of thing, but it’s not hard to imagine that discussing your future living space with your significant other can lead to a fight or two, unless your relationship is literally straight out of a fairy tale.

“We don’t have a dog, Lew.”

“May I correct you: we don’t have a dog yet.”

Nix gets an eye-roll in response, as well as... oh hell, Smokey really could’ve lived without ever seeing that disgustingly fond smile, with crinkling bright eyes and all. It makes him want to either throw rose petals at the two, or make gagging sounds like a five year old.

Since he likes to at least pretend to be a mature adult, he does neither and instead puts down what the two have ordered, interrupting their debate for a few seconds of “yeah, just put it on the bathroom, that’s okay” and “thank you, no don’t worry about stains, there’s already a mustard one on the calculations for the electricity”.

It’s when Smokey’s back behind the counter and observing the two men from his relative safety, watches as they honest to good play footsie under the table, Nix gets crumbs on the future bedroom area and is threatened to get some really good coffee dumped on his head, that he has the dawning suspicion that maybe Eugene Roe’s first stop at ‘Bastogne’ was a lot more significant than initially assumed.

|||

“... just saying, don’t give him no excuses. This the place Babe was talkin’ about?”

The scrap of conversation accompanied by the ring of the bell and two men entering the shop makes Smokey lift his head from where he was reading yesterday’s newspaper.

“Pretty sure it is, Johnny,” the shorter of the two guys says, flashing a set of teeth that appear even more pearly white in contrast to the tanned skin that should not be possible during these cold winter months. “Bull said he’d be here in ten, right?”

“Yeah, so we better get one of those tables over there”, his companion replies, pointing to the tables at the wall that seat up to four people. He shakes some snowflakes out of his dark hair and when he takes off his scarf and hat he reveals a bitter expression that practically screams ‘espresso drinker’.

Toothpaste Commercial guy acknowledges Smokey with a nod. “Hey, you know a Babe Heffron? Ginger kid with a love for sweet things including a certain med student?”

Smokey grins. Just three days and Doc Roe’s already working his magic again. This whole development is doing wonderful things to Smokey’s entertainment and cash register. “I sure do. Why? He done the lord’s work and recommended me to you?”

The two men walk to the table they’ve apparently unspokenly decided on. Smokey arms himself with notepad and pen - not that he actually needs them, he just likes the way they make him feel like a real waiter - and comes out from behind the counter while the others peel themselves out of coats and gloves.

“Yeah, something like that. He swore that it was your coffee and cookies that sped up his recovery,” the potential espresso drinker - Johnny, if Smokey had heard correctly - pulls a face that says he doesn’t believe Heffron one bit. “We thought we should check if he’s just exaggerating because of a sugar induced high.”

The other guy opens his mouth but is cut off before he can get a word out. “No, Frank, no one cares about your Italian descent and how that automatically makes you a qualified coffee connoisseur.”

Frank closes his mouth, visibly offended, until Johnny claps him on the back with a grin breaking out on his face (which is a good look on him, Smokey thinks, he should try that more often). “Just kidding, pal.” Again, Frank shows his incredibly white teeth, this time in a blinding smile.

As touching as their moment is, Smokey feels compelled to get on with his job. He points at the yet unoccupied chair. “You guys waiting for someone?”

“Yeah, he’s -” Johnny interrupts himself to grin at the big stocky guy stepping into the shop. “Hey Bull!” he calls to him (and that is one accurate nickname if Smokey’s ever heard one), raising a hand to wave him over while pointedly ignoring the dark look the girl with the chemistry book on the other side of the room is giving him. “Good timing, we were just about to mock your late hick ass.”

“I’m feelin’ the love, Johnny,” Bull grins back, stepping up to Smokey, who feels both weirdly safe with such a gentle giant next to him as well as slightly intimidated.

With a nod and word of greeting to Frank, Bull drapes his jacket and scarf over the back of his chair and sits down, not without giving Johnny a clap on the shoulder that has Smokey wincing while Johnny doesn’t even bat an eye. Must be used to this kind of treatment.

“Alright”, Smokey starts, “what can I get you guys?”

Frank goes first, asking if they still have some of those cookies Babe was gushing on and on about and ordering an espresso macchiato with skim milk. Bull and Johnny decide they want to share a slice of the lemon cake Shifty made just three hours ago, but Bull goes for cappuccino while Johnny wants a double shot of espresso (Smokey mentally pats himself on the back for a guess done right).

Except... The door opens again and a guy with incredibly blue eyes and soft brown hair that looks like someone has just recently had his fingers in it (possibly the skinny guy behind him who’s stubbing out a cigarette with his boot) comes into view. Smokey takes an immediate liking to the guy. Never has anyone before surveyed his modest little establishment in such open mouthed, admiring wonder.

Johnny sighs and turns to Smokey. “Didn’t think Roe would spread the word this far. Please make that a triple shot.”

Hiding his raised eyebrows by looking down at his notepad, Smokey nods. “Got that.”

As he walks back behind the counter to get on making the order, he greets the newcomers with a friendly nod and “welcome to ‘Bastogne’, make yourself comfortable, I’ll send someone to you”. He hollers for Skinny to come out of the back room and do what he’s being paid to do instead of eating the muffin dough right out from under Shifty’s hands.

It’s a nice change to be able to let his gaze wander and see the small group of three good-naturedly joking around and teasing each other on his right side, and then Skinny on the other side, slowly despairing over the order of the man with the ridiculously pretty eyes that look increasingly annoyed by the snarky remarks that seem to be his friend’s only possible way of communicating. (It’s around this time that Smokey realizes that having his mouth open is the guy’s default expression, not a display of awe. But hey, Smokey’s not one to judge. Maybe this guy, Web, as the other calls him, just has a cold and can’t breathe through his nose or something).  

Smokey really has to think of a proper way to thank Eugene for his help in getting ‘Bastogne’ to blossom into the lively shop it deserves to be.

|||

 Technically, the opportunity presents itself right the next day, a bitterly cold but for once sunny day of early January.

This time, Heffron and Roe have brought three friends and they choose the corner table at the window where Eugene and Babe end up sitting pressed together on the couch so the woman in the group has enough space to sit next to them while the two guys take up the chairs.

To Smokey’s dismay, it’s Skinny who greets and serves them excitedly, because the coffee machine is apparently overwhelmed by the sudden amount of sickeningly cute love in the air and has decided to give up on its owner in right this moment.

“Why are you such a traitor, Gustav?” Smokey mumbles, disgruntled by this injustice.

“Maybe because he’s sick of you always stroking the cash register all lovingly while he never gets so much as a ‘well done’,” Moe comments, not bothering to swallow the cracker he’s currently chewing on.

Smokey gives him a stern look. “First of all, that’s not even true. He knows he’s the real champ and the only one who gets anything done around here, except maybe for Shifty. And secondly. Not the time, Alley, not the time.” He looks over to where Skinny is talking animatedly to the blonde woman next to Babe on the couch. Okay, actually he’s pretty sure that all Skinny’s doing is smiling and nodding a lot because the woman’s smile has melted his ability to form coherent sentences into a puddle. Not that Smokey can blame him.

“I could be over there,” Smokey sighs longingly.

Moe snorts. “And be right up close and personal with the two lovebirds? And the guy whose jawline looks so sharp he could cut Gustav in half? Nah.” He shoves the rest of the cracker into his mouth. “Also, why is that third guy wearing a knit cap indoors?”

Shrugging, Smokey gives Gustav a soft apologetic pat followed by a punch that luckily does the trick and gets him back to making the noises a coffee machine is supposed to make. “Thank you,” he whispers. Then, as an afterthought, “no sound compares to your sweet brewing hiss.”

“You can ask that writer guy from yesterday that Sisk told me about if he can help you with composing a love poem,” Moe mocks without real venom in his voice.

Smokey shakes his head. “I swear he’s a worse chatterbox than my aunt Erna, and she’s in a knitting club or whatever these ladies call it.”

“Hey, you guys talking about me?” Speak of the devil. Both Smokey and Moe turn around to see Skinny leaning against the counter, grinning cheerfully with a light blush colouring his cheeks. “At least with me you’re always up to date. What would you two old men do without me?”

To prove how wrong he is, Moe’s arm darts out and he’s ruffling Skinny’s hair before the guy can duck away. “Don’t push your luck, kiddo.”

Unsuccessfully, Skinny tries to style his carefully non-styled hair back into what it looked like before, which is kind of exactly the way it looks right now, just with more deliberate casualness. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Alley.”

“Good,” Smokey throws in, “respect your elders and superiors, they know where the money comes from. Now,” he nods to the table where Heffron is apparently trying to imitate the way Roe called him ‘Babe’ for the first time, much to the amusement of the others, even Roe who does a spectacularly bad job at hiding it. “Spill.”

Like some magic word that has the power to unlock a cupboard containing a limitless supply of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee, Skinny’s eyes glaze over and he smiles dopily into the distance. “Her name is Renee and she knows Eugene from work ‘cause she’s a nurse. And she actually is from Bastogne, like, the real Bastogne in Belgium, how crazy is that? She speaks with this French accent that’s just… it’s so nice to listen to, guys, and she loves hot chocolate!”

Moe outright laughs while Smokey just blinks.

“I meant everyone’s order, you lovesick fool.”

“Oh.”

Lowering his voice conspiratorially, Moe leans closer towards Skinny. “You got her number?”

Skinny’s face falls a little. “No, she didn’t offer. And I didn’t wanna pressure or anything, I’m not that kinda guy. Besides, I don’t think it’s anything more than a crush, a- what do they call it? Infatuation! But damn,” he sighs again, “it sure feels real.”

“The absence of money in your tip jar is gonna feel real too if you don’t tell me what they want.”

“Come on, Smoke,” Moe chuckles, “let the kid live a little.”

“Oh, I will”, Smokey retorts. “But I can do that while I prepare coffee. Multitasking and efficiency and all that. I got a business to run, my friend.”

Skinny holds up his hands. “Alright, alright.” He looks down at the notepad. “Okay, hot chocolate for the beautiful lady. Flat white for Bill - that’s the guy opposite Eugene, with the jaw and laugh, and next time you can ask him yourself what he wants, ‘cause I had to ask three times until I understood him.”

Moe frowns. “Why? Mumbler?”

All Skinny does is look up from his list of beverages and food to fix Moe with a flat look. “Philly.”

Simultaneously, Smokey and Moe make a knowing “oh” sound.

“Anyway. Spina, the guy with the cute knit cap wants a chai latte, and I love how the two idiots in love went for completely different drinks again. Black for Eugene, mocha latte with cinnamon sprinkled on top - so, I quote, “it fits the drinker” - for Babe.”

Smokey raises his eyebrows. “Who was the one who said that?”

“No, don’t say it,” Moe jumps in, steepling his fingers and making an exaggeratedly thoughtful face. “Eugene Roe.”

“Congratulations,” Skinny deadpans, “you win more bad jokes and my suffering.” His blank face breaks into a grin. “But no! Actually, it was Bill who said that.”

“Huh.” Moe appears impressed at that and throws a glance at the group, which is currently in stitches over something the woman - Renee, Smokey reminds himself - is saying. Bill’s back is turned to them but his laugh that really sounds like nothing Smokey’s ever heard resounds through the whole shop.

Seeing Eugene laugh is still a bit bizarre. The med student seems like he was born with a frown that’s sort of always there, just in varying intensity. Laughing however, the way he’s doing it right now with crinkling eyes and shaking shoulders that bump into Babe, probably unintentionally, make him and everything around him seem a little warmer, a little brighter. Judging by the way Babe’s gaze keeps wandering back to him, he agrees.

Meanwhile, Renee is resting a hand on Spina’s upper arm while wiping at her eyes, occasionally chuckling to herself. When Bill in his full body laugh claps a hand on Spina’s shoulder to support himself, Spina just rolls his eyes and gives both foreign hands on his body a pat.

“These people,” Smokey mutters to no one in particular, although out of the corner of his eye he sees Moe and Skinny nodding. He busies himself with the task of getting everyone’s coffee order ready and while he could do that on his own, it’s much more fun to poke Moe in the side and demand he help, since they actually have enough customers to justify the presence of two baristas behind the counter.

Smokey smiles to himself and sets the mug with Eugene’s black coffee on a saucer. “These people.”

(Later, the group leaves ‘Bastogne’ with cheerfully called goodbyes and under the scrutiny of three baristas who are very disappointed that, again, there is no handholding involved and therefore no money changes its owner.)

|||

The next time someone from Roe’s seemingly inexhaustible circle of friends and acquaintances pays a visit to ‘Bastogne’, it’s January 13 around 2:38pm.

Smokey knows this because he was just walking out of the pharmacy, bag with cough medicine for Moe and ‘The Muppets’ band-aids in hand, when an old lady with a bright red purse and yellow rubber boots called out to him. She’d introduced herself as Dolores and asked if he could tell her the time as well as directions to the next store that sold household goods. Neither of those things posed a problem for the “fine young gentleman”, since Smokey’s wearing his watch for once and could not only tell her that it was 2:28pm, but also the date and - and that point she had launched into a lengthy explanation about the current moon phase making her especially forgetful. Unfortunately, Smokey hadn’t been able to hold on to his gentlemanly manners and tuned her out. In his defense, his mind was legitimately distracted by his worries about freezing into an ice block.

And while she’d been absolutely right by calling him a gentleman, he could only extend his late lunch break so long. Especially since Tab and Popeye had been the ones keeping an eye on ‘Bastogne’. They have the inexplicable habit of throwing peanuts at each other and it often distracts them enough to forget about basic important things, like mandatory hygiene in a coffee shop, or keeping up a semblance of professionalism and the pretense of being a legitimate business.

Which is how ten minutes after the woman had finally let him out of her clutches to buy a new ironing board, Smokey pulls open the door to ‘Bastogne’ with a glance at his watch and a sigh, only to stop in brief astonishment in the middle of the doorway.

Around the big corner table - that usually stays empty because groups that big seldomly come in and people prefer tables at the windows - sits a group of four guys. One of them, a tall guy with blond hair and shockingly blue eyes, is laughing at something the ginger next to him is saying, while the shorter guy opposite him with the floppy hair is stealing the milk foam from his friend’s coffee (the friend, who’s got both hands wrapped around the mug, doesn’t even bat an eyelid).

Blinking a few times before finally stepping into his shop, Smokey looks over to where Tab and Popeye are standing by the counter. Popeye is predictably fishing peanuts out of his collar and, more worryingly, his thin hair that really shouldn’t work as a hiding place for nuts. Making his way over to them by weaving through the sparsely occupied tables, Smokey nearly trips over his feet because he’s paying a little too much attention to how the blond guy pulls out knitting needles and purple, soft-looking wool.

“Aw,” the ginger comments, “is that the hat you promised to make me so I wouldn’t freeze off my brain cells?”

“No,” comes the reply, delivered with a grin. Surprisingly, despite the icy eyes the man seems to be one of the warmest guys ‘Bastogne’s had the pleasure of serving coffee to. “I’m afraid it’s too late for your wooden head, Malark. This,” he holds up what looks like the beginning of tiny socks, “is for my nephew.”

The rest of the table honest to god coos.

“Wait, hold on,” the guy with the floppy hair breaks in. “The one I volunteered to babysit that one time, and got paid for by getting covered in oatmeal and half chewed carrots?”

“Exactly that one, Skip,” the proud uncle says, smiling at his knit work. “Guess she couldn’t look at your ugly mug any longer.”

Looking scandalized, the babysitter/milk foam stealer turns to his friend on his right. “Penk, please tell Buck over there that my face is a work of beauty and undeserving of such crude insults.”

To Smokey’s disappointment, he’s just reached the counter and can’t understand what this Penk guy says in response, but the laughter of the other guys tells him it he’s missed something good. Raising his eyebrows, he fixes Tab with a questioning look.

“What the hell?”

Tab grins. “Welcome home, honey, good to see you didn’t actually slip and break something. Or ran off to warmer regions to escape winter and your coffee serving duties.”

Depositing the pharmacy bag on the counter, Smokey doesn’t bother faking sheepishness. “Point taken, but still: what the hell, guys? I leave you alone for an hour and you get not just one but four customers who don’t even seem to be students?”

Popeye leans over the counter so as not having to talk too loudly. “You gotta thank that med student of yours for this.”

Smokey frowns and takes off his scarf. “Eugene? He was here?”

“Yep,” Popeye says, popping the ‘p’. “In fact, you just missed him. He came by to drop off that group of friendly troublemakers,” he nods to where Floppy Hair guy is breaking his muffin into three pieces and gives one to the ginger and one to the guy he’d called Penk. “Even stayed a while to get a coffee and wait for you to say hello.”

“Yeah, since we thought you’d be back in five,” Tab throws in. “How were we supposed to know that you’d take ages?”

“Damn you, Dolores,” Smokey mutters under his breath.

Popeye pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, he said he’d come by again tomorrow with that Heffron kid.”

At that, Smokey perks up. “You think some of us are finally gonna get their money from the betting pool?”

Popeye shrugs. “For starters, I’d like to see the lovestruck pair with my own two eyes before I put money on them. Something tells me Skinny is exaggerating.”

“I wish he was, but trust me, he’s really not,” Smokey says longsufferingly.

Tab pulls at his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Guess we’ll see tomorrow. As long as Shifty brings the list with the stakes.”

Humming in agreement, Smokey goes to drop his jacket and pharmacy purchases in the back and get ready for work. He’ll have to be more careful in the future to not get held up by elderly chatty women.

To his relief, he actually gets to know Roe’s friends a little better when they ask for refills a while later. They don’t stop at introducing themselves but also readily offer information on how they know the med student, and what they get up to when they’re not drinking coffee. This is how Smokey finds out that Buck compensates for all the stress his job as a lawyer puts him through with knitting, and that Skip and Penkala share an apartment with a constantly occupied pull out couch, because according to Malarkey, they know how to cook and how to throw the best sleepovers this side of the Pacific Ocean.

(“You’d know it, Malark,” Buck laughs. “That couch practically has your name written on it, and you can’t cook for shit.”

“To say it with your words: I object!”)

They also warn Smokey off playing cards with Malarkey.

It’s around the time Skip mentions that one time he swam across the Niagara, that Smokey gets the nagging suspicion that maybe this isn’t the first time he’s seen the guy. Smokey’s about to ask whether Skip had wanted to use a rubber boat for that special undertaking, but is kept from doing so by Buck calling out “George!” and waving excitedly to the newcomer by the door who’s shaking snow out of his floofy dark hair.

When he finally looks over to their table and grins, Smokey can’t keep himself from staring for a bit longer than is polite. But it honestly feels like the sun has just come up in his tiny shop, that’s how much the guy seems to radiate brightness and warmth.

Or his own coffee has hallucinatory side effects, Smokey wouldn’t be surprised.

The guy introduces himself as George Luz and his handshake is exactly as firm and warm as Smokey had expected. Whether it’s because of the knitted gloves or because Luz is really just the kind of guy whose heart, mind and body is made out of sunshine and therefore basically a heater, no one cares to explain.

What he does have to explain after taking off his coat, is how the giant rainbow coloured paint stain got on his blue sweater. Luz doesn’t even seem to notice it until everyone else lets out a soft gasp.

“Just a minor incident at the kindergarten, no big deal.” He flops down on the last empty chair at the table. “Now can I get some of that coffee that was promised to me on the condition I join this merry round of ne’er-do-wells?”

Smokey nearly trips over himself in his hurry to get the guy what he wants. It probably takes some time to become immune to the charms of one George Luz.

Roe knows the greatest people.

|||

  True to his word, Eugene walks into ‘Bastogne’ early in the morning of the next day, with a decidedly better looking, non-sneezing Heffron in tow.

Fortunately, they have enough time to sit down comfortably at one of the tables at the back and order coffee as well as something to eat. Babe seems eager to taste his way through their entire assortment and Smokey finds himself unwilling to stop him. (He’d stolen a bite - or four - of Shifty’s chocolate and orange cake, and refusing anyone that heavenly goodness is a sin Smokey doesn’t want to commit.)

However, in his eagerness that doesn’t seem limited to baked goods and caffeinated drinks, Babe makes a sweeping hand gesture that knocks over his coffee cup. The spilled liquid would be a depressing sight to any coffee enthusiast such as Smokey, if it weren’t for Babe’s hilariously shocked expression and his immediate offer, or rather insistence, that he clean it up himself.

“Because your mama raised you a gentleman with good manners, we know,” is all Eugene comments on this, but his fondly exasperated look is enough for Popeye to make a beeline towards the kitchen to find Shifty and throw some of his money in the betting pool. Tab follows him, right after getting a front row seat to Babe laughing over Eugene’s remark, cutting himself on one of the porcelain shards, and getting taken care of by Eugene’s capable (and ridiculously gentle) hands.

Smokey, whose watchful eyes escape nothing, feels a bit like that time two years ago, when he and Moe had spent a weekend at Popeye’s family’s place in Virginia and eaten too much cotton candy during the annual fair. Even though they’d been reduced to lying on the grass next to the stall of an old, very friendly lady selling self-made jams, holding their stomachs and trying to prevent their teeth from dissolving into sugary goo, they’d agreed wholeheartedly that nothing could beat smalltown fairs.

Unlike two years ago, Smokey doesn’t bask in the afterglow of saccharine goodness this time, but makes himself useful by throwing Kermit the Frog band-aids at Heffron and getting him a fresh cup of coffee.

He can’t decide what’s worse. Watching Eugene insist on applying the band-aids while leaning towards Babe way closer than necessary, or getting flashbacks of high school when one of them looks at the other until they notice and turn to them, just to be faced with someone studiously pretending like they weren’t looking in the first place.

The fact that both Tab disappearing for almost an hour to talk to his current girlfriend and Popeye nicking the last of Shifty’s peanut butter brownies pale in comparison to the disappointment Smokey feels when Eugene and Babe leave ‘Bastogne’ without so much as holding hands or giving just the slightest indication of romantic activities, tells Smokey that he needs better hobbies than getting invested in his customer’s not-yet-existent love life.

|||

Two quiet days later finds Smokey and Tab having to suppress frustrated groans. From their vantage point at Gustav’s side they have an excellent view of Roe and Heffron pulling open the door to ‘Bastogne’ and stumbling into the warmth. Apparently, they’re too deeply immersed in a conversation. They’re also accompanied by Renee and a guy looking even younger than Skinny, and it’s this entourage that makes the whole thing worthy of frustration.

“At this point, I’m not even in it for the money,” Smokey confesses to Tab in a hushed whisper as their customers find seats to their liking and peel themselves out of their winter clothes. Which ends with Babe punching Eugene in the ribs because apparently he can’t get out of his jacket’s sleeve without including some street fighting moves.

Renee just laughs while the third guy throws a glove at the profusely apologizing Babe, whose proclamations of regret immediately turn defensive as soon as Eugene accuses him of throwing that punch on purpose.

Smokey rolls his eyes. “Just to have an excuse to touch him, or what?” he mutters under his breath.

There’s no way the four people at the table could’ve heard him, but Babe is blushing faintly, cheeks turning slightly red the way they looked right after stepping inside the warm coffeeshop out of the cold.

“Oh, come on,” Smokey whines. “If I wanna watch PG-rated ‘everyone knows they’re going to end up riding into the sunset living happily ever after but we’ll make you wait for it because of profit’ flicks, all I need to do is turn on the TV.”

“I know our college’s ancient history professor,” Tab says, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of them, “and I’m sure he’d compare us to the Romans watching the Circus games, like, gladiators and whatnot. Except we don’t yell ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’. No, we yell ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’.”

Smokey nods with his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Does that make us better than those bloodthirsty bedsheet fashionistas, or just more pathetic?”

Tab shrugs, which is a-okay with Smokey because neither of these options sounds truly worth striving for.

What follows is possibly the most awkward not-actually-a-double-date non-date. Basically, Eugene and Babe sit opposite Renee and the guy who’s introduced himself as Julian, “Babe’s brother not in blood but bond”.

(“Yeah, you wish you had some of these awesome genes, sucker.”

“You mean those genes that make you trip on flat surfaces and stupidly oblivious to the point where I worry about your eyesight and common sense? Nah, I don’t think so.”)

This doesn’t keep the two of them from getting distracted from the conversation by playing footsie under the table, or by Babe halting mid-sentence to hand his cup of mocha cappuccino to Eugene, who hadn’t even asked for it yet takes a few tentative sips. Or by Eugene suddenly reaching out to inspect Babe’s palm that by now sports a very fetching ‘The Little Mermaid’ band-aid.

They seem to have no boundaries whatsoever, except for the one that keeps them from taking the step that both of them so obviously want to take. If the lingering glances when the other one presumably isn’t looking, Eugene tugging his jacket over Babe’s shoulders when he catches him shivering, and Babe sharing his muffin without having been asked are any indications.

How Renee can only smile into her hot chocolate while Julian rolls his eyes and fake-coughs into the creak of his elbow, remains a mystery to Smokey and Tab.

“Yeah, I get what you mean about not being in it for the betting money anymore,” Tab says while shaking his head.

It’s almost two hours later and he’s looking up from texting his girlfriend to join Smokey in waving the three guys goodbye. No hand holding, no kissing, no declarations of love. Only a one-sided smile of Renee and a nearly imperceptible shake of her head as she puts some money into the tip jar by the counter and follows her friends outside into the snow.

Tab arms himself with rag and tray to clear the now vacated table.

The two college students from earlier and the older couple in the corner have long left, leaving the shop empty save for its employees. This gives Smokey the perfect opportunity to grab the broomstick from behind the door that leads to the back of the shop and walk around the counter. With the tables and seats in front of him, he taps on the wooden broomstick end as if preparing for addressing a crowd.

Unable to keep back a grin, Tab rolls his eyes and makes to gather the empty cups and plates on the tray.

Holding the broomstick like a microphone, Smokey clears his throat.

“The day was snowy, bright but cold,
when four young people, the story’s told,
set out to find their favourite shop,
walking quickly without cease or stop.

Good coffee was their heart’s desire,
‘Bastogne’ was where they could acquire
some of that brewed delicacy,
as it was that place’s legacy.

And, oh, they did not come in vain,
but with their presence came the pain,
for two of them kept touching hands
without having romantic plans.

Oh, young love! When did you get so blind
to miss the other one’s just as inclined?
When, please tell me cause I do not know,
did you become a barista’s woe?

So coffee I make, coffee they drink,
and find the two after every blink
still not having told the other -
fuck, why do I even bother?”

With a last swipe of the table, Tab looks up at a confidently grinning Smokey. The grin only gets wider when there’s applause coming from behind him, Moe being the source of it as a quick look over Smokey’s shoulder confirms.

Smokey gives a small bow in his direction, then another one to Tab, who’s shaking his head in amused disbelief.

Coming out of the back area to lean against the counter with his hip, Moe tugs off the brown scarf his aunt had knitted him three years ago.

“You know,” he says, throwing it haphazardly over the nearest back of a chair, “even without running into your med student and his friends on my way here, I know exactly who you’re talking about. It’s kinda depressing.”

Smokey nods, supporting himself with the broomstick still in his hand. “If things don’t change, I think we’ll have some buttkicking to do. Some playing cupid.”

Moe laughs. “Yeah right, you’re not gonna get me to wear a diaper, Gordon, nice try. I’ll leave that to you. That bow and arrow though…”

With the tray of dirty dishes in his hand, Tab walks over, regarding Smokey half doubtful, half impressed. “Did you literally make that poem up just now?”

Smokey grins. “This ain’t just a pretty face, my friend.”

“No, there’s also the truckload of conceit and arrogance to match all that hidden talent,” Moe snorts.

If Tab weren’t holding the tray, they’d probably high five, Smokey can feel it. He grabs Moe’s scarf to wrap it around his own neck, brushing the insulting compliment aside. Or was it rather a complimenting insult? Smokey shrugs mentally. He doesn’t tend to dwell on the potentially mean words of his friends, he knows they’re usually said with no ill intent, only lots of love.

“I just suffered through two hours of watching lovesick idiots making moony eyes at each other. That’s more than enough time to figure out a way to express this frustration I’m feeling.” Despite being three years old and having been worn many times, Moe’s scarf is still soft and it’s almost distracting how nice it feels against Smokey’s skin.

“Yeah, you’ve created true art,” Tab says dryly, squeezing past Moe to make his way to the kitchen.

“And you’re just jealous of my skills!” Smokey calls after him. It’s a good thing Tab doesn’t reply to that, because just in that moment the door opens and two tired looking young women walk in. It’d be a shame to scare off new customers, although it seems like Eugene is single-handedly taking care of that particular problem. Smokey has to give him that, obvious sickening crush or no.

|||

Luckily for everyone involved in this peculiar ‘Will they? Of course they will, but fucking when?’ situation, no buttkicking is needed.

Over the long weekend, what with the 19th being a most-welcome holiday, the sky had once again opened its gates to cover the land with masses of fresh snow. This had given The Band the perfect opportunity to pile into Tab’s old sedan, with Popeye sitting half in Smokey and Skinny’s laps on the backseat, to drive out of the city to go sledding. They’d begrudgingly let Moe be in charge of the radio, since his singing along was bearable, even if it was to way overplayed pop songs.

After a few not-so-near accidents - Moe almost manages to wrap himself around a tree but gets away with just a scratch on his cheek and his right side soaked in snow; Popeye falls off the sled he’d shared with Tab and lands his ass right on a rock; Smokey temporarily loses the feeling in his feet after getting run over by a slightly too eager Skinny barrelling down the hill - they’d decided it was time to eat what Shifty had so thoughtfully put together for them.

It’d taken them building a whole snowman family - dog included, since Tab had insisted that it was an absolute necessity - and a snowball fight that left no person dry until they all had enough of the white fluffy coldness and came to the unanimous decision to head back. This time with Tab’s mild complaining over getting melted snow all over the seats of his precious car accompanying Moe’s dulcet voice asking them to take him to church, he’d worship like a dog at the shrine of their lies.

No one regrets spending the day like they’d been fifteen again, not even Popeye, who wakes up the following day with a cold so bad he makes Smokey take a detour on his way to ‘Bastogne’ to supply him with plenty of meds and soup.

Which is how Smokey almost misses the arrival of his infuriating yet enjoyable customers.

He’s just joined a doodling Skinny behind the counter, recognized the guy at the book-covered table in the back as the Perpetually Open-Mouthed guy - Werner? Weber? - who had terrorized Skinny with his coffee order the last time, when the opening door catches his attention.

To his pleasant surprise, Renee walks in, blonde hair tugged under a blue hat. And then Skinny pokes him in the side and hisses “dude, are you seeing what I’m seeing?!”

It takes no genius to figure out that what he means is the sight of Eugene and Heffron, holding hands, entering the shop through the door Renee in her foresight is still holding open for them. Or, in Heffron’s case, stumbling through the door, because he’s too busy staring at the fondly smiling med student attached to his hand.

“Guess I gotta come up with a new poem,” Smokey says, unable to hold back a grin.

The three freezing people part ways after waving to the two baristas behind the counter, the lovebirds looking for a place to sit while Renee comes up to Skinny and Smokey.

“Bonjour to the two of you,” she greets with a warm smile, sliding the hat off her head. “Mind if I stay with you for a while? I don’t think I can stomach any more of those two fools.” With her thumb, she points over her shoulder at the mentioned fools.

“We can hear you, chérie,” Babe calls to her as he pulls out the chair for Eugene, without having taken off his coat yet.

Renee rolls her eyes. She doesn’t even turn around when she calls back, “don’t pretend like your French gets better than ‘fromage’, ‘c’est la vie’ and ‘voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir’.”

“Oh, no,” Eugene chimes in, tugging Babe’s gloves off, “he’s learning pretty well. Taught him how to say “I gave my heart to you”, ‘cause he wanted to know.”

With no little fascination, Smokey watches Babe’s cheeks get tinged with red as he leans over to whisper something into Eugene’s ear.

The only thing Renee can do is close her eyes and sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Do you see what I have to put up with?” she whispers. “Mon Dieu, libère-moi, j’en ai marre.”

Smokey gets out a mug for her hot chocolate, gently setting it on the counter and, in a fit of sympathy, conjures up the Hershey bar he’d hidden behind the kitchen towels underneath the counter. “There, there. I’m sure once they get over their honeymoon phase things’ll get better.”

Renee opens her eyes and, upon seeing the proffered chocolate, perks up a bit. With a weak smile, she accepts it and takes it from Smokey’s outstretched palm. “Yesterday Babe burned his tongue on the coffee I made for them and asked Eugene if kissing it better was a doctor-approved healing method.”

“Jesus Christ,” Skinny blurts out, to the silent agreement of Smokey.

“Let me tell you a secret, though,” Renee says, lowering her voice once more. Reflexively, Smokey and Skinny lean closer to ensure they don’t miss a single word. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, Renee confesses, “I really like seeing them this happy.”

Before Smokey can reply with something that might turn out to be pretty embarrassing, Skinny takes care of that by inhaling audibly and stating, with a dreamy look on his face, “you’re kind of really amazing, you know that?”

Renee just laughs and doesn’t stop when Smokey whacks Skinny over the head and tells him to get the amazing lady a chair to sit on so she doesn’t have to enjoy her hot chocolate while standing around. Which he’s sure she’d do gracefully, but why allow that when it’s unnecessary.

In between sips of her hot chocolate, Renee explains that after her apartment got flooded a week ago, Eugene’s kindly offered his couch to her, thus giving her a front row seat to the ‘disgustingly adorable’ relationship blooming right in front of her eyes. Even though the conversation quickly moves on to less romantic topics - Skinny asks disturbingly detailed questions about the real town Bastogne -, the three of them make some casual check ups on the freshly minted couple every now and then, and are glad to find that the two don’t act so different from before, save for the increased touching and soulful glances that are now no longer hidden.

Smokey and Skinny completely forget to make a visit to Shifty to see how much money they’ve won.

|||

To the baristas (and the baker) of ‘Bastogne’, it’s a great joy to find out that not only Eugene and his closer circle of friends keep finding their way back to their fine caffeine offering establishment. Over the course of the next month, quite a few familiar faces show up, sometimes with new ones by their side who are not too shy to introduce themselves. If they’re in a particularly good mood, they’ll also reminisce about how they came to know the dark haired med student.

One of the guys who becomes somewhat of a regular fairly soon is David Webster.

To be honest, Smokey’s not sure what to make of the man who always comes by in the late morning and sets up shop in the back, basically hiding behind the fort he builds with his laptop and books.

“Yo, those books are all about sharks and ‘Secrets of the Deep Blue Sea’ and stuff,” Popeye reports during Webster’s second time of barricading himself behind his extensive reading material.

Smokey is busy looking over Moe’s shoulder at the monocled moustachioed face that’s currently being drawn on a styrofoam cup, so his attention is currently not on the dirty mugs that Popeye slides over the counter.

Making a considering noise at the back of his throat, Popeye leans against the counter. “You know, that reminds me of when I was a kid and obsessed with dinosaurs.” That gets the attention of the artistically inclined men.

Immediately, Moe looks up from his masterpiece that, if imagined with top hat, would look a lot like the fancy guy from Monopoly.

“I always wanted to be a Deinonychus,” Moe says, eyes sparkling. There’s an unmistakable longing in his voice, much to the amusement of Popeye.

“You mean ‘unreasonably over 6 feet tall, weird quiff, and screeching incessantly’? Congratulations, buddy,” he slaps Moe on the shoulder, “you succeeded.”

Giving him a flat look, Moe retorts, “and I bet you dreamed of being a Brachiosaurus.” Upon noticing Smokey’s confusion (his childhood mostly consisted of pirates and Lego), he explains, “larger than life, strong, that kinda shit.” He turns back to Popeye. “Guess you had to bury your dreams, pal. Aw. That’s so sad.” His tone suggests that it’s about as emotionally moving as a three year old bland oatmeal cookie.

Offended, Popeye lays his hand over his heart. “Really, Alley? The past 15 years weren’t enough for you? You’re still goin’ on and on about the three inches you have on me?”

“Well,” Moe says, raising his chin, “it’s true, ain’t it? My niece is gonna catch up to you real fast if you don’t follow the advice of your name sake and start chugging more spinach.” He gives Popeye a once over. “Or don’t. Pretty sure it’s too late for you.”

Popeye smirks. “Guess that means you have to bow down to me if you wanna sock me one.”

“Seriously, guys?” Putting down his tray on the counter, Tab wipes his hands on his apron and gives his two bickering friends a displeased look. “I thought we’d worked out a system where we use this whole different height thing to our advantage. Moe gets stuff down from high shelves, Popeye’s responsible for the lower stuff, it’s all good.”

In eerie sync, Popeye and Moe turn towards him, crossing their arms in front of their chests.

“Are you deflecting from your boring average height again, Tab?” Moe asks. “Is that what’s happening here?”

Keeping his eyes fixed on Tab, Popeye nods in agreement. “Yeah Moe, I think it is.”

As Tab makes an indignant sound and is visibly fumbling for words (“we’re the same height, Popeye! This whole conversation is stupid!”), Smokey shakes his head and leaves the fighting to his friends in favour of doing his job and serving coffee to paying customers.

Paying customers like Webster. Whose presence, when not typing furiously or trying to come up with some overly complicated order, Smokey’s often not even aware of. Among his favourite activities are apparently staring pensively out the window, and not noticing when someone serves him a regular latte (instead of his desired fat free no foam latte with one packet of splenda and 30% of the top covered in cinnamon sprinkles). All the while his face has an expression that looks too old on such a young guy, yet fits like worn-in leather shoes. That is why he’s ironically one of the more inconspicuous customers.

That is, as long as his boyfriend, one Joe Liebgott, doesn’t accompany him. It’s not the black boots or leather jacket that make Smokey’s eyebrows discover new heights. While Liebgott totally gives off a scrappy street fighter vibe, he also seems like the kind of guy to save puppies and other creatures in need, which makes him a good guy in Smokey’s book and therefore welcome to ‘Bastogne’.

But still, undeniably, there lies trouble in those mischievously gleaming eyes and sharp-toothed grins. Skinny knows that better than anyone else, what with being the victim of The Incident no one dares talking about anymore. (It had involved a yelp from the direction of the customers’ restroom, followed by Liebgott’s derisive voice mocking “what, never seen two guys making out? The fuck are you doing with your life, Sisk?”, a door being slammed shut and Skinny storming out the shop without even taking his jacket with him, only muttering “traumatized for fucking life” under his breath.)

So yeah, in general, Webster is a welcome addition to the shop, as long as his boyfriend doesn’t huddle together with Shifty and/or Skinny to talk about comics and possibly taking over the world or something, Smokey isn’t sure. But he prefers his youths uncorrupted, thank you.

||

He’d also prefer it if Roe and Heffron could take their nauseating show of affection someplace else, but apparently that’s too much to ask for. And, to be fair, he’s owes them a thank you. They’re the reason he won enough money to buy an old record player from a garage sale, along with a ‘Remember The 1940s’ record that has Moe’s eyes lighting up like the Gordon’s christmas tree five years ago.

Plus, they don’t seem to learn from their past mistakes and more often that not bring someone else with them. By the end of January, Renee has single-handedly managed to make Skinny spill coffee on himself twice and keep their selling rate for hot chocolate in excellent condition. After accompanying the lovebirds a second time, John Julian starts dropping by for just a quick coffee to-go or joining friends at another table, friends who Smokey recognizes as Skip, Penk and Malarkey.

And there’s also Bill Guarnere.

“Jesus, I need a break from those two dipshits back there,” is what he says first thing as he drops into the chair that Renee had sat in not three weeks ago. Smokey can’t help but stare at that magnificent jawline for a moment too long when Bill jerks his head in the direction of the dipshits. It saves him the sight of Babe insisting to keep his hands in Eugene’s to warm them after wandering through the cold streets. “You mind fixing me something with a shot of alcohol, barista? Don’t get me wrong, I love those kids, but they’re a pain in my ass.”

With a lazy grin, Smokey wipes his hands on the dishtowel he’s stuck through this belt loops. “Name’s Smokey not ‘barista’, this ain’t a bar, and you can leave that Philly accent in the streets, pal, cause I can’t understand you.”

Leaning back in his chair, Bill gives him a scrutinizing look before his expression brightens up a bit and he laughs quickly and dryly. “You’re alright, man.” He rests his arms on the counter and raises an eyebrow inquisitively. “Smokey, eh? You light ‘em up like a chimney, or how did that happen?”

Over trading stories of how Smokey found his way into the coffee brewing business, Bill’s job as professional firefighter - “man, where were you when I was in 10th grade?” - The Band’s sledding adventure and Bill’s recent acquirement of a motorcycle, the two completely forget that Smokey actually has work to do. Luckily, Moe can handle what few other customers they have, although not without rolling his eyes exaggeratedly at having to serve Roe and Heffron.

(It takes another two weeks for them to damp down the PDA and general ‘fools in love’ air around them. Eugene starts bringing his textbooks, Babe brings his old shabby laptop and headphones and they sit in amiable silence next to each other, each doing their own thing while sipping coffee and stealing touches that feel a lot less disgustingly cute now that they don’t come with longing glances and unresolved tension.)

||

Another pair that finds its way again to one of ‘Bastogne’s tables is Impressive Eyebrow guy and his ginger friend. Nixon and Winters, Smokey remembers. In lieu of their blueprints, they bring along a short, gap-toothed guy who reminds Smokey of a leprechaun, as well as a fierce looking fellow with frightfully unmoving eyes who, despite his ‘I’m in the mood for setting something on fire’ vibe, looks ready to drop on the next horizontal surface in eternal slumber.

“All I’m saying is, take it easy, Harry,” Winters admonishes just as the group enters the coffee shop, “I don’t want to have to call Roe again.”

Nixon nods agreeingly with a smirk on his lips as he takes off his scarf. “And as far as I know Kitty, she won’t be too thrilled about her fiancé limping down the aisle.”

Leprechaun guy, whose name is apparently Harry, momentarily gets glazed over eyes. “Hell no, no limping in Kitty and her family’s presence. For her, I could float down the aisle on the wings of love.” The snort of the fourth guy snaps Harry out of his reverie. With a raised finger, he turns to the stranger. “You stop that right now, my friend, or there won’t be any free coffee in your future. I don’t care how heroically you helped your firefighting friends in need.”

With a lifted eyebrow, the guy follows Nixon and Winters’ example and takes off his coat and scarf to make himself comfortable on the couch in the corner.

“You already said you wouldn’t pay for me,” he says flatly. Kind of like the smooth ice on the lake Smokey and the rest of The Band had tried to go skating on once and promptly broke through into the freezing water. “Your words were “why the hell would I pay for someone who constantly rips me off during poker nights?”

To Harry’s obvious annoyance, Nix gives a short laugh. “Hah, yeah Harry, I remember that.”

Winters reassuringly puts a hand on Harry’s arm. “Sit down, Harry, no one expects you to buy Ron anything.”

While doing as his friend has told him to, Harry doesn’t miss out on mumbling “fucker still got my watch around his wrist, of course I’m not gonna spend money on him” as he flops gracelessly into the last free chair around the table. It’s only then that the four acknowledge Smokey’s presence where he’s standing by the neighbouring table, listening in curiously. Only now that the conversation has dimmed, he deems it safe to approach the group and ask for their orders that in the end all get paid for by Harry, since he’s “a husband in the making and therefore should practice how to give out”.

Smokey should really stop spying on his customers, but it’s a hard thing to do when they’re so much more entertaining than avoiding paperwork or listening to Tab’s stories of bathing his dog.

||

The spying issue is resolved, in a way, by Popeye a good week after Harry tries to convince Shifty to bake for his wedding and Smokey counts their tea spoons three times - and even asks Tab to double-check - but ultimately has to accept that one of their spoons has mysteriously disappeared.

It’s half an hour before closing time and the shop is empty save for Shifty and Skinny bustling around in the back, so Smokey allows himself to begin preparing the shop for the night. Which mostly means sliding and shimmying between the tables to whatever song is currently playing on the radio to see which tables still need to be cleaned or where the sugar and napkins need a refill.

He’s just performing a very impressive spin to Bruno Mars demanding that some liquor be put into his cup when the door opens and Popeye stumbles in, a group of tired but satisfied looking guys right behind him. They hover in the entrance area for a second and Smokey takes note of the worn jeans and sneakers, the navy blue sweaters with the small writing ‘Fire Department’ over the heart and the various tiny specks of soot on their skin. Only one of the guys is familiar; there is no way one could forget a face and grin like that of Bill Guarnere.

Popeye waves the four guys off to one of the tables as he makes his way over to Smokey.

“Hey Smokey, ‘Dance Moms’ or ‘America’s Got Talent’?” Bill asks in passing, jerking his head to indicate all of Smokey’s twirling grace.

The guy shuffling behind Bill claps him on the shoulder. “Careful, buddy, or you’ll have to deal with insults to your mom or your own person. You’re makin’ it too easy.” Smokey would agree if he weren’t occupied with keeping himself from asking whether the guy ate sandpaper for dinner and washed it down with gravel. A voice like that cannot be healthy or natural.

Turning half around to the speaker, Bill’s elbow lands in the other guy’s ribs. “Shut yer yap, Joe, Smokey is a man of class.”

And oh, he’d love to say that he is. Mama Gordon has done a very good job raising her son a polite gentleman, always happy to help the elderly with carrying the groceries, holding open doors for ladies and gentlemen alike, giving free cookies to the children that are too young for coffee. Alas…

“Yeah. Ask his mom about how classy I am, Joe. She knows.”

To the background noise of the other three guys chuckling, Bill throws a displeased look at Smokey, then shrugs and huffs a laugh. “Heh, saw the chance and took it. Can’t be mad at that.” They’ve reached the table in the middle that seats five people, and Bill gives his friend a pat on the shoulder. “Sit your ass down, Joe, you’ve done enough for today.”

With one eyebrow raised accusatorily, Smokey turns to Popeye, who tries to make himself even smaller than he already is.

“I send you out to get milk and you bring me these troublemakers twenty minutes before I flip the sign and get the hell outta here?” Sounding angry isn’t really one of Smokey’s strong suits, least of all when it’s supposed to be aimed at his friends. While Popeye’s display of fear is most likely exaggerated, it’s also appreciated.

“I did get the milk?” Popeye offers with a sheepish smile and a pat on his messenger bag. “And I can vouch for at least one of these guys. See the one with the badass scar on his cheek?” Smokey doesn’t reply with ‘duh’, although it’s a close thing. “That’s Lipton. He’s the one who helped me last summer when I couldn’t get up the stairs because of my ass.”

It would be hard to forget that period of time that had caused everyone much joy, with the exception of the sufferer himself.

“And you already know Bill,” Popeye adds. “He saw me coming out the store and asked if we still had some coffee for four tired firefighters at the end of a hard day.” Now it’s his time to raise an eyebrow in accusation. “What was I s’posed to do? Leave them out in the cold?”

“Nah, of course not.” His eyes fall back to the four figures sitting at the table, with slumped shoulders and palpable exhaustion in every fibre of their bodies. The smile Popeye’s saviour, Lipton, gives the two baristas when he catches them looking is still warm and genuine though, and he doesn’t have to raise his voice one bit when he speaks. It carries effortlessly through the room.

“We know it’s late, but we can help you clean up and close the shop. As compensation.” Lipton suggests this as if it’s the most natural thing for a customer to offer making the life of someone working in customer service easier. Judging by the way the other three guys seem to deflate even more, they don’t share Lipton’s view on this topic, even though they don’t voice their complaints.

“See,” Popeye whispers next to Smokey. “I told you. Great guy.”

Right he may be, but Smokey still punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Go and bring Shifty and Skinny the happy news. Maybe we got some of that apple pie left. And you,” he turns to the cautiously hopeful looking group, “that’s complete bullshit, I won’t let paying customers swing the broom.”

He’s pretty sure Bill, Joe and and third guy exchange relieved glances. All Lipton does is give a one-sided smile, a small nod and a soft “okay”. Smokey feels the urge to get an IV and inject caffeine right into the guy’s bloodstream. He sure looks like he needs it. Alternatively, he could of course go with the healthier method and go to sleep right there on the couch in the corner for a few days, but that would require Smokey to exercise his caretaking abilities and he’s not sure if he’s up for that.

He goes with what he knows he’s good at.

“So,” Smokey pulls out his doodle-filled notepad, “what can I get you?”

The four have just finished ordering their coffees, thanking Smokey twice for still serving them, which at this point he just shrugs off, and while he leaves them to their hushed conversation to start making their drinks, Popeye returns with Shifty and Skinny in tow. And half a plate of apple pie in Shifty’s hands that reflexively has Smokey’s mouth watering.

Before he can ask for a piece himself, however, Shifty’s gaze falls on the group in the back and his eyes light up. To Smokey’s disappointed astonishment, Shifty waltzes right past him to the firefighters, leaving nothing but the heavenly smell of baked apples in his wake.

Smokey and Skinny watch in fascination how Shifty walks over to the group, cheerfully calling “hey Lip!” and how he barely gets the pie on the table before pulling Lipton into an awkward half-standing half-seated hug.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say they know each other,” says Bill, with more eyes for the pie than the reunion scene in front of him.

“You don’t fucking say,” Joe quips. Smokey feels the need to offer him a cough drop but instead pulls himself together and hurries up with the ordered drinks. In his peripheral vision he sees Shifty breaking the hug, a bright smile on his young features.

Just as Shifty opens his mouth to possibly explain how he came to know the firefighter with the impressive scar on his cheek, Bill beats him to it and points at the baked dish. “Hey, is this fine-lookin’ pie for us? Cause I’m fucking starving and I’m telling ya, I’m not afraid to use my hands to get that into my mouth but Mama Lip here has a thing for table manners and shit like that, ain’t that right Lip? So forks would be real nice here.”

‘Mama Lip’ only chuckles softly, apparently too exhausted to act on motherly duties and chide Bill.

Being the helpful employee that he is, Skinny jumps into action and gets the famished souls forks, plates and even some of the Christmas themed paper napkins that had ended up in the backroom at some point before New Year’s and had stayed there due to no one feeling responsible for their future. It’s therefore no wonder that Joe eyes them a little suspiciously. Ultimately his hunger must outweigh his reservations about reindeer and snowmen covered paper, though. He makes sure the other three have gotten their share of pie on their plates, then he digs in right along with Lipton.

“So,” Bill somehow gets out around his mouthful of pie, using his fork to point at Shifty, “what’s the story?”

Since he hadn’t seen any sense in standing around like an empty flower vase, Shifty had claimed the last free chair at the table as his own, placing himself at the short end with Lipton on his right and Bill on his left. With his time to speak finally here, he looks up from the snowflake-patterned napkin he’d been folding into a tiny boat with two small sails, and grins in that sweet, unassuming way.

“A few years back I wanted to visit my uncle in Ohio during the holidays, but my truck broke down halfway. Halfway means West Virginia, and I was just about to leave Huntington. Guess you wouldn’t know it, it’s pretty small. But it was real lucky for me, cause that’s where the Lipton family has its B&B, and I stayed there overnight. Lip helped me fix the truck the next day.”

Lipton smiles at the memory and nods. “We didn’t have any rooms left but my mother refused to let him sleep in the car. Almost physically dragged him into our living room and on the couch.”

“Even heated up that lasagne for me,” Shifty adds with longing in his voice. “Best lasagne I ever had, never was able to recreate it, even though she gave me the recipe.”

“Maybe it’s a sign that you should stick to your pies and muffins and cookies.” With a smirk, Skinny lays a condescending hand on Shifty’s shoulder. He should’ve known better and expect the incredibly well-aimed punch Shifty deals to his thigh.

“Wait, you’re the Shifty? Shifty the baker?” It’s the first time the fourth guy in the group opens his mouth. It earns him four heads turned his way.

In Smokey’s case, this is a little unfortunate since he’s currently balancing four cups of coffee on his tray and it’s common knowledge that once you tear your eyes away from scalding hot liquid in your hands, it will spill everywhere in a fit of cosmological injustice. Tonight the stars must be on his side, though. He even has enough time to notice the small cut half-obscured by the guy’s hairline before setting down the tray in the middle of the table without having spilled one drop.

“Uhm,” Shifty says, summing up the general feeling of the people in the room.

The guy nods slightly. “Floyd mentioned you once or twice, but I hadn’t… put the pieces together, I guess.”

Smokey frowns. “Hold up, who the hell is Floy- Oh. Right, nevermind.” He quickly busies himself with placing the steaming coffee cups in front of the right person.

Meanwhile, understanding dawns on Shifty’s face. “So you must be Chuck, the guy who joins Tab and Trigger on their morning runs sometimes? He didn’t say you were a firefighter though. And the way he described you, I thought you were more… lively.”

Bill laughs his “heh” while Joe to his right snorts. Even Lipton and Chuck give small smiles.

“Yeah, Shifty,” Popeye claps his friend on the shoulder, “tell us what you think.”

Thankfully remembering his table manners this time, Bill swallows his bite of pie before opening his mouth. “You gotta go easy on Chuck tonight, even a stubborn head like his doesn’t just get over having a roof collapse on it. At least it’s only a minor concussion. Could’a been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for Speirs running in there through the smoke like a damn madman. Crazy bastard was really impressive though, eh Lip?” He smirks and winks at Lipton, who blinks tiredly but still manages to lift a corner of his mouth in a half-smile.

“But you’re okay, right?” Smokey enquires, brushing over the comment he can’t fully understand. He’s more worried about potentially unconscious customers in his coffee shop. “We could call someone. A med student. You could say we have connections.”

Bill “heh”s again, but Chuck carefully shakes his head. “Got cleared and everything. I’m fine, really, just a bit slower and quieter, I suppose. Just need a bit of rest.”

While Joe places a hand on Chuck’s shoulder, Shifty makes a sympathetic noise. “Tab’ll be sad to hear that you won’t be able to join him tomorrow.” And then he quickly adds, “but he’s gonna be glad it’s not worse.”

With one corner of his mouth tugging upwards, Chuck gives Shifty an appreciative glance. “He’s gonna live.”

“Just like you, buddy,” Bill throws in, “just like you.”

Smokey clears his throat. “Yeah, we’re all glad to hear that.” He spares a quick glance at the clock above the counter. “And I’m just gonna flip the sign to ‘Closed’, but feel free to stay a while longer, of course. What would we mere mortals do without the bravery of everyday heroes?” Before he turns around for good, he gives the group a once-over, a twinkle in his eyes. “And now I know who to call if Gustav ever takes “Girl On Fire” a bit too seriously.”

“Gustav’s the coffee machine,” he hears Popeye explain on his way to the door, to the understanding noises of the four guys.

“Hey Chuck, I forgot to ask. Did Speirs offer you his couch for tonight to make sure you don’t die and his acts of heroism weren’t just to make an impression on Lip?”

“No, he didn’t. Joe agreed though. Insisted, even. If threatening bodily harm counts as ‘insisting’.”

“The fuck? I’m pretty sure I’d know about that.”

“Not you. Joe Liebgott.”

“Well then have fun with Webster giving you a misty-eyed lecture about the fragility of life or some bullshit like that for breakfast.”

“Still better than having to drive Babe to the hospital first thing in the morning just because he can’t even make breakfast without nearly cutting his hand off.”

Smokey arrives back at the table just as Skinny, who’s gotten himself a chair from the neighbouring table and is now squeezed between Shifty and Bill with Popeye sitting on the table behind him, leans forward. “You know Heffron?”

“Kiddo, we all know everyone and everyone’s mother,” Bill says, stabbing into his slice of pie. “And those who don’t know Heffron sure as hell know Roe, and that’s how we get the full circle.”

“That, or their fire alarm called us to them at least once.” There’s no real anger or annoyance in Joe’s words, so Smokey assumes that the firefighter isn’t too irritated with how he gets to know his acquaintances.

Grabbing a chair and spinning it around so he can sit on it backwards with his arms on the backrest, Smokey joins the circle. “Tell us more about that firefighting business of yours, I’m interested. And how the lovebirds fit into this scenario.”

“Well,” Bill grins, putting down his fork, “it all started with target practice one summer in the hot South Philly streets.”

“Here we fucking go,” mutters Joe and takes a huge gulp of his coffee.

Bill ignores him. “You know what makes a good target when you’re playin’ around with water guns and pretend to save the day? A ginger head popping outta windows. I don’t like saying it, but that red-headed kid made me into the excellent firefighter I am today.”

“Yep,” Chuck mumbles, “here we go.”

None of ‘Bastogne’s staff end up getting home before midnight. None of them care.

|||

Smokey has never had a particularly prominent ambition to become a wizard - don’t ask Mrs. Gordon about this, she will get out the photo albums and tell you everything about little Walter trying to lift dirty socks off the floor with a painted chopstick - but holding a broomstick, even if it’s just for sweeping behind the counter, makes him feel a little bit more powerful. Also, if he weren’t in ‘Bastogne’ where five customers could see and possibly videotape him, he wouldn’t hesitate to sway his hips to the music, maybe spin the broomstick around the room in a swift Viennese waltz. Although...

He’s so caught up in his daydream that he almost misses Heffron calling “bye Smokey, see ya around!” and Roe’s quieter addition of “have a good afternoon”. Luckily for Smokey, he’s practically programmed to notice when something’s up with these two, so he stops his skillful sweeping to lean on his broomstick and wave the two leaving men goodbye. And then watch them as they stop right outside the shop, Roe pulling Heffron around by the hand so they’re facing each other.

In Smokey’s defense, that area of the street still belongs to ‘Bastogne’. He has the right, no, he has the duty to know what’s happening on his property.

Skinny appears seemingly out of nowhere at his side and joins him in the execution of his property owner duties.

“Jesus Christ, they’re disgusting,” Skinny says, as they watch Roe putting his forest green scarf around Heffron’s neck.

“Yep,” Smokey replies, eyes fixed on Roe using the scarf to pull Heffron closer so he can press a short chaste kiss on the other man’s lips.

“Really, guys?” Tab asks, suddenly standing right next to Skinny and following their line of sight. “Spying on the lovebirds? Have you sunk so low?”

Together, no one showing any inclination to turn away whatsoever, they witness Heffron taking Roe’s hands in his so he can breathe light kisses on the undoubtedly cold skin.

When Roe leans closer to whisper something in Heffron’s ear, the three spectators lean forward as well, in an attempt to catch the words. Since there’s a shop window and about 20 metres between them and their subjects of fascination, the attempt remains futile.

And then it doesn’t matter because all of a sudden Heffron turns to them, narrowing his eyes at them through the glass, and it dawns on the three that they’ve been caught. Not that that deters them from their mission.

And then. Well, then Heffron grabs his smiling med student by the shoulders, dips him, and plants the most impressive film-material-like kiss on Roe’s mouth.

Whether they don’t stop the kiss (but rather turn it into a semi-make-out session) because they just can’t hear their audience applauding, or because they don’t care, that’s solely between the sweethearts. Who seem to have forgotten why they’re even kissing in the first place.

|||

The thing is, Smokey’s never expected to make a huge amount of money with his coffee brewing skills. As long as it’s enough to get by, he’s satisfied. All he’s ever wanted was to have his own coffee shop, and he fulfilled that dream pretty successfully. He doesn’t know what the future holds for him, whether it’s always going to be like this, with his friends permanently working right by his side. He doesn’t know if ‘Bastogne’ will stay afloat; the economy a slippery business.

But Smokey’s made coffee over a bunsen burner in a chemistry lab. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to fight his way through whatever life throws at him, to make the best with what he’s got.

In second grade, their teacher Mrs. Pattenson, an old lady with red-rimmed glasses and a jar of gummy bears on her desk, made the class come together and assigned everyone a letter to write on a huge poster that they hung up in the class room. Smokey was the exclamation mark in what later spelled “Follow your dreams!”, in messy colourful second grader writing. Years later, the whole thing sure seems a little trite, but he likes to think that if Mrs. Pattenson could see him now, she would be proud of him.

Especially right now on this February 15th, the day ‘Bastogne’ is overrun and conquered by a group of about twenty coffee-thirsty people with an apparently non-existent understanding of personal boundaries or social norms.

The day had started like most Sundays: quietly. Everyone had gotten the chance to sleep in and, as they do at least once a month, met up in ‘Bastogne’ an hour before opening time so they could have a late breakfast together with freshly baked croissants, courtesy of the Powers family.

(“My dad’s retired, not dead,” Shifty says, emptying the paper bag’s delicious smelling contents into a basket.

With closed eyes, Popeye holds his head right over the basket and inhales deeply. “I’ll be honest with you, Shifty. A zombie could’ve made these and I’d still eat ten of ‘em. Real glad your dad’s still alive and kickin’ though.”)

Since none of them had felt like braving the miserable grey February weather, they decided to stay indoors in various degrees of wakefulness. Smokey, Skinny and Moe prepared to open the shop for people such as Tab, who took their textbooks, laptops and frayed nerves to a coffee shop in the hope that their study abilities would benefit from a neutral environment where they could drown their sorrows in caffeine and pretend they were listening to productivity-increasing music as opposed to watching cat videos.

Popeye hadn’t eaten ten croissants but still announced that he was going to take a digestive nap and shuffled to the office room to snore on the couch. Which was where he’d stayed until Shifty, under the pretense of needing him for cutting up chocolate, woke him up two hours later.

All in all the few hours that passed between their breakfast and the Seizing of ‘Bastogne’, as Moe would later dub it, were spent in welcome calmness. Apparently the majority of the city’s population was still trying to recover from their Valentine’s Day bliss, allowing The Band to enjoy a tranquil noon and afternoon with only a few interruptions. Like when Shifty asked for everyone’s opinion on his apple and blackberry turnovers, or when Tab remembered that he hadn’t shown them Trigger’s newest trick, or when a simple crossword puzzle nearly resulted in someone having to climb on the counter to scrape the remains of a banana off the ceiling and exchange three light bulbs. Nearly.

It had been tranquil, until the terrifying roars of seasoned warriors signalled the beginning of the Battle for ‘Bastogne’, the coffee shop the warriors intended to triumphantly seize as their own. As a person prone to theatrics might put it.

In reality, as life often tends to be, it doesn’t happen quite as dramatically. Although the shadows of an unexpectedly large group of people outside the windows, approaching like a storm cloud about to wreak havoc on innocent baristas who are just trying to live their life, elicit the strange urge in Smokey to order his friends into a line and defend this coffee shop with their last breaths. Sure, he’s good at speeches but no President Whitmore, and while Luz’ hair shouldn’t be able to look as fluffy as it does, he’s still very much human, not alien. But Smokey likes to think his friends care enough about him and the life they’ve built in these four walls that they wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

(It’s high time the 4th of July rolls around again so they can all huddle around the TV, play their customized drinking game to “Independence Day” and throw popcorn at Tom Cruise in a Navy pilot uniform.)

“Damn,” Popeye whistles, watching with Smokey and Skinny as the mass of people comes closer.

Smokey wants to yell something like “we will not go quietly into the night!” but before he gets the chance, the door opens and together with the icy wind the anticipated crowd streams in. He finds he recognizes all of them, if not by name then at least by looks or coffee order.

Luz, Skip and the little Italian fellow are at the head of the assembly, greeting the still slightly stunned baristas with blinding grins that could single-handedly power ‘Bastogne’ for a month. They move in the direction of the counter to make space for the rest of the bunch that follows behind them, eager to get out of the cold.

“Hey and hello, favourite coffee brewing friends, how ya doin’?” Luz takes off his gloves and waves at Tab, who’s still pretending to do work. “Floyd over there mentioned that you got some free space here where we could meet up and celebrate the newlyweds without having to freeze our asses off.”

Skip nods. “They’re good-looking asses. It would be a shame.”

From behind them, Malarkey looks over their shoulders, a shivering Penkala at his side. “We talkin’ about our asses again? I thought that was Perco and Popeye’s thing.”

Immediately, Popeye throws himself into the conversation, and an indignant Frank Perconte tries to defend his honour by loudly proclaiming that “it was only that one time!”, which totally does not help his case at all.

Equally unhelpful is Skinny, who not only just starts laughing but also, after a clap on Frank’s shoulder, scuttles away to join Liebgott and Webster.  

“Floyd Talbert!” Smokey calls to the culprit of the entire situation. He’s lived through family board game nights, and high school parties where other people than him or his friends were the reason for property damage and fist fights. This, however, is a whole new level of ‘people gathering’. He’s not feeling overwhelmed per se, but... “Floyd Talbert, please get your ass over here and help me deal with what -”

“Hey,” Luz interrupts him. “Is it cool if we just push the tables together so no one’s gotta sit alone? We’ll include you guys, of course.”

With his gaze sweeping across the room, Smokey takes in the sea of people currently milling around between door and seating area. Over the low buzz of their chattering he can barely hear himself think. Nothing could’ve prepared him for something like this. Neither his strangely optimistic horoscope for this month, nor the fortune cookie from last time’s take out, which had read the infinitely wise words “Things will happen. Let them.”

Smokey takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, do that.” Before he’s finished speaking, Skip and Malarkey are already gone, yelling to Buck and Bull to help them with the tables.

Luz grins. “Thanks, you’re doin’ us a real favour. Come on, Frank,” he pulls at Perconte’s jacket sleeve, “no one wants to hear your ass stories anymore. Let’s get this show on the road.”

With them gone as well, Smokey and Popeye have a clear sight of Joe and Bill coming in, with Heffron walking right behind them and not-so-accidentally stepping into Bill’s heels. He’s saved from an unpleasant fallout by Eugene pulling him away to the tables that the others have begun pushing together. While Roe calls out a quick “hi, good to see you”, Babe waves jauntily at Smokey with his free hand. He doesn’t see Smokey waving back because in just that moment he trips over his own feet and stumbles right into Bull’s back. It makes Smokey wonder whether that feels like running into a brick wall or rather like a full-frontal collision with the floor.

In their wake, Heffron and Roe leave an innocently smiling Julian and Spina, as well as Renee. Sensing that her ginger friend must have once again angered their mutual belligerent friends, she simply takes a step forward so she can link arms with Bill and Joe and guide them away from any possible trouble. Smokey gets to witness first-hand the way Bill’s and Joe’s faces first lose their tension and then even light up as they chuckle along to Renee’s contagious laugh.

“I leave you for ten minutes to help Shifty in the kitchen and when I come back it’s like someone’s promised free stuff to random people on the street?” comes Moe’s voice from behind Smokey and Popeye. When he joins them and lets his gaze wander over the horde of people, half of them still pushing and shoving tables where they want them to be while the other half stands by and watches - not without catcalling and making cracks - he whistles lowly. “Not just random people. Wait,” he turns to Smokey, perking up at the thought that’s made its way into his head. “Are we giving away free stuff? ‘Cause whatever it is, I want some.”

“No, we’ll pay for everything, don’t worry. We’re not here to drive you into the ground.” These words of relief are uttered by none other than Lipton, who’s managed to carefully pave his way through the crowd to the counter.

Smokey’s glad to see the guy less exhausted than during his last visit, although his voice is a little rough. He’s more worried about the man hovering behind Lipton, though. Speirs - if Smokey remembers his name correctly - gives everything in ‘Bastogne’ a look that has Smokey’s internal alarm system ringing loudly. He suppresses the urge to quickly nail everything in place or put locks on cabinets by focusing on Lipton.

“Good to hear you’re not about to take advantage of my soft heart.” Smokey cranes his neck to scan the people in the room who are finally starting to settle down. “I thought this was a celebration for the newlyweds. Where is the lucky couple? I know Harry’s not the tallest guy but even he wouldn’t be able to hide in Nixon’s back pocket.”

Speirs snorts, gaze firmly fixed on the styrofoam snowman next to the display case, a remnant of their winter decorations.

“Already in Paris on their honeymoon,” Lipton smiles.

“Paris?” Moe asks. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?” It comes out muffled because he’s chewing on a peanut butter cookie that he has conjured up from somewhere, most likely his sweater pocket that shows a suspicious lump that hadn’t been there a few hours ago.

“They’re that kinda couple,” is Lipton’s reply, delivered with a quirk of his lips. Thinking back to how Harry had spoken about “the love of his life”, Smokey has no trouble believing him.

“Hey Smokey!” Malarkey shouts across the room over the voices of his companions. “Stop flirting with Lip, he’s practically married already. Let him give you our coffee orders so we can get this party started!”

Shaking his head while letting out an amused chuckle, Lipton waits until the whistles and laughter have died down a little. Then he unfolds a note and clears his throat. “Alright. One hot chocolate, three mocha lattes -”

“I think he’s able to read that for himself,” Speirs says flatly, gently prying the note out of Lipton’s hands and pushing it at Smokey with an indecipherable smile.

Smokey opens his mouth to respond that hell yeah, he can read, he won a Read Aloud Competition in fifth grade, but Speirs has already taken Lipton by the shoulders and carefully but determinedly pushes him over to the by now finished arrangement of tables and chairs. All the while he’s muttering something about “for Christ’s sake, let him do his thing, you still have to go easy on your voice”, which Smokey doesn’t fully understand and Lipton doesn’t seem to whole-heartedly agree on.

Then he catches sight of the list on the note in his hand, and he decides to let Speirs’ confusing comment slide in favour of getting down to business.

It takes a while until everyone’s found a place to sit that they’re satisfied with, and it takes even longer until everyone has their cup of whatever beverage they desire standing in front of them, even though there are four baristas working at full speed.

At some point between Nixon finally taking off his sunglasses and a very short call from an alarmingly drunk-but-happy sounding Harry, Shifty’s come out of the kitchen, balancing two plates with different kinds of cookies and chocolate brownies on his hands. After he’d deposited the plates in the middle of the tables that are standing in a slightly misshapen cross formation, the room had dissolved into barely controllable chaos. It came close to a miracle that no drinks were spilled and no food ended up on the floor between muddy boots and moving chairs.

The rest of The Band has already joined the celebrations, blending in perfectly. Only Smokey is preparing the last drink - Renee’s hot chocolate, as he notices with a hint of regret. She still smiles gratefully at him when he hands it over to her.

Straightening up, Smokey surveys the room. His little coffee shop that he’s so used to seeing half-empty is almost vibrating with life and energy, and he could swear that since the door opened and the group stumbled in, it’s gotten a bit brighter without them having to turn on any lights.

Nixon uses his spoon to tap against his coffee mug and the lively conversations subside, everyone turning to Winters, who raises his mug.

“To Kitty and Harry.” And just like that, the room erupts in cheers again, quickly moving on from congratulatory wishes to more mundane things.

(“Stop stealing all my whipped cream, Skip, get your own.”

“Does anyone here know songs from the ‘40s? ‘Cause I’d love to -”

“- and then he comes back with this pair of scissors, and I think “thank fuck” -”

“Ey, look! Didn’t think I’d see the day but Babe’s got a beard! I didn’t even noti - heh, sorry guys, false alarm, just milk foam. Shoulda known it.”)

Realizing that the group has taken up every available chair and table, Smokey throws a glance to the door. ‘Bastogne’ was apparently designed to hold just these many people.

Smokey claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Hey guys, it’s great to have you here.” He pauses a second to let the whoops and shouts of delight die away. “Just wanna let you know that since you’re making it impossible for anyone else to come by, I’m just gonna close the shop. Don’t be alarmed if you see the ‘Closed’ sign, is what I mean. Please know,” he grins, “that our hearts are always open for you. And now, drink up fellas.”

To the sound of “aw, that’s so sweet” and “hell yeah!”s, Smokey wanders over to the door and flips the sign. He doesn’t mind the mocking one bit, he firmly stands by what he’s said. Smokey Gordon is many things - barista, good friend, random poetry enthusiast, ready to welcome people with a cup o’ joe and a kind heart - but he’s not a liar or ashamed of letting his creative side get the better of him.

“Yo Smokey,” Moe calls to him from his place next to Liebgott and Malarkey. “Look, we got a chair left for you. Why don’t you get yourself some coffee and join in on the madness?”

Smokey doesn’t need to be asked twice.