Chapter Text
The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf ;
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.
The wind came down from mountains cold,
and like a tide it roare-
"Will?"
Jane's scraping her nails against the peeling paint of the doorframe. It's not a good sign, already putting a sharp bolt of worry through his spine and tender innards, as he puts the book flat down on the counter and looks up at her.
"Can you come help? Just… not good. I don't know."
Pressing her lip up against her teeth with pale fingers, Jane stares at him, eyes wet and wide. She scratches and bites when she's scared, when she feels cornered, and the stool under Will scrapes against the lino floor with his hurry to stand.
He washes his hands in the sink at the wall, bruising his knee against the pedal, hands shaking at the hot sting of it, and steps out to the front of house with the paper towel still tearing and sticking between his wet fingers. It's rushed, not enough time to dry thoroughly, but Jane's standing in the doorway with her arms crossed across her chest and glimmering tears under the mall light glow, and it's Jane. He'd come to work in wet shoes and for no wage, for her.
"What can I help you with, here?"
"Can you just fucking explain to her what a spicy beef no chilli means? Jesus Christ. I want that and a coke."
"Alright."
As he rings up the order on the register, for the irate customer who works at the cinema down the corridor, judging his red sleeves and the black chested shirt, Jane disappears into the back of house. Right now, his priority is getting the customer and the pizza out the door, but he still feels his heart tugging to follow her, to assuage the shame.
The handheld on the counter croons late night jazz radio as Will pulls a loaf of dough from the shelf beneath the counter. Slapping it onto the flour dusted counter, he pushes its edges apart with enough force his finger joints creak in pain.
Will can feel the encroaching headache of a late night and an interrupted break, a flash of Jane's tired eyes creeping up on him, like molten cyanide under the skin of his forehead. Maybe his veins are popping at his temples, and the lines between his brows have creased hard, but he can't find it in him to care right now.
It makes him feel sick in his stomach, when stuff like this happens to her at work. Sick and biting, like a feral dog left at the bottom of his guts, getting his intestines tangled in it's teeth.
It's almost nine in the evening, late enough Will's thinking about manning the shop alone and sending her to get them coffees, just to keep them going for the rest of it and give her somewhere to go relax for a bit. Except it'd be a dollar each, from the only place that still does them this late, so that'd be about fifteen minutes of his work gone. He thinks about the phone bill and the rent notice clipped to the fridge, fifty dollar bills pinned on top of it with a magnet. But he can still make that tonight, and he never has to worry about dinner anymore, and there's leftovers in the fridge for the morning, and he's going out for lunch with Max and her boyfriend so he-
He's almost about to sprinkle a third fistful of cheese over this dickhead's pizza when he snaps back into the scene, to the customer rubbing his nose and face and sniffling, to the spicy beef - with no fresh chilli, just the marinated beef and spicy sauce - to being alone in the front of house with a job to do. He has to get out of his head, crunching money numbers until he's dizzy with panic, wringing his hands as sweat pools in the webbing. He drags the pizza onto the peel and slides it into the oven to bake, face burning from the heat of it, palms scorched on the steel handle.
Cleaning the prep station is a blissfully mindless task, as the oven crackles behind him. Swiping away dough flecks and used flour, collecting receipts and notes behind the counter, tidying and organising. With only the grunting from the cinema worker and the music of the radio for company, everything starts to crowd with his thoughts of groceries and tallies and Jane, eyes flicking to the clock as he counts down the minutes until closing.
The pizza comes out perfectly dark at the edges, brown bubbles popping on the cheese, the sauce dark red and the beef still tender and juicy. Usually Will's proud of his work, but tonight, he just wants this guy to fuck off home.
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry for the confusion, earlier. Have a good night."
The moment the doors are closed, he's chasing her out back. Through the skinny corridors, past the prep kitchen, next to the cold storage. He looks for her by the staff lockers and the door to the bins in the access corridors, winding through the mall like arteries, out of sight from the general public.
He finds a note, made with torn off receipt paper and blue ballpoint, bluetacked to the wall next to the time clock.
I need to breathe outside. I'm getting coffee, and I will bring one back for you. Thank you for helping me.
His heart drops down to his black sneakers, permanently grease stained from this job, and he shuffles back to the front of house to draw practice animals on receipts and wait for her to come back. If she's feeling better, they'll argue about whether he'll pay her back for the coffee or not, and if it's weighing on her still, he'll make her a garlic cheese pizza to eat in silence in the back of house.
It's not a routine he thinks works as well as it's supposed to.