Chapter Text
Stanley notices him the moment he walks in. He’s not exactly easy to miss - tall, in a smartly-trimmed grayish brown suit, an angular but handsome face, and large square glasses perched on his nose. He’s also the first customer in through the door, considering that they open at exactly 8AM. He pauses and surveys the empty cafe for a second, before turning with a sharp click of his shoes and heading straight for the counter.
“Hot,” Stanley declares blearily. He’s on his second cup of coffee already and he’s still far from awake, and the man is very much well-put-together. His coworker, Mariella, elbows him sharply. “Look alive, mister, he’s coming your way.”
Stanley runs his hands through his bedhead and adjusts his nametag. He belatedly wishes he’d bothered to put on some foundation for his eyebags, but the customer’s already reached the counter and is now eye to eye with Stanley as he ambles over. This close, he can see the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and the way his eyes catch the golden light of the lamps above him.
I wonder if his hair is as fluffy as it looks… Stanley muses to himself.
“Hello? Did you hear me?” The other man is talking. His voice is unexpectedly pleasant, low and smooth with an undercurrent of annoyance. He’s definitely British, which is a bit unusual for this small town, but Stanley’s seen weirder customers. Wait he’s a barista this is his job -
“Hello, and welcome to the Bucket Brews Coffee Shop! What can I get for you today?” Stanley puts on his best customer service smile and hopes he didn’t miss anything important.
The customer blinks slowly, in a manner reminiscent of a confused cat. “I said I wanted a small ginger lemon tea with no sugar?”
So Stanley did miss something important. “Alright, that’ll be $2.99.” The customer nods and pays quietly, apparently having gotten over Stanley’s stumble from earlier.
“Can I get a name for your order?” Stanley’s running through his usual customer script on autopilot now, considering most of his brain is either still asleep or taken up by those golden eyes. This man is very hot, and Stanley can tell that he isn’t even trying to be. He’s gotten good over the years at clocking when someone is interested in him, and the customer doesn’t seem to have even noticed Stanley’s existence aside from the mistake he made earlier.
The man hums contemplatively. “You can call me… Henry.”
“Henry, got it, ok.” It’s times like these when Stanley loves working at a coffee shop. He can put a name to that handsome face now, and he doesn’t even have to admit the real reason why he cares! He turns away to the coffeemakers and starts putting together the tea, and definitely doesn’t jump in surprise when Mariella sidles up behind him and pokes him in the side, hard.
“OW! What was that for?”
“You’re really into him, aren’t you.” Mariella is smirking. She smells blood in the water.
Stanley looks away, flustered. “I mean, he’s really cute and handsome and has a nice voice…”
Mariella sighs. “He ordered tea. At a coffee shop. At 8am.”
“But he’s so cute. Look at him!” The man in question has settled on a table by the window, and is quietly staring outside at the rain.
Mariella squints for a second, then shakes her head. “I don’t see it. He’s probably not even gay anyways, so you have no chance with him.”
“He ordered tea in a coffee shop, Mariella. If he isn’t gay I’ll eat my pride flag.”
The kettle boils, and Stanley carefully pours the water over the store-bought tea bag. The steam rises up and nearly obscures Mariella’s exasperated face.
“He’s literally British! Do you remember the last time you hooked up with a British guy?”
Stanley does not, considering he was more than a little drunk that night and he’s still too tired to think of anything beyond those golden eyes, but Mariella is giving him her Look, so he nods meekly and pretends to be busy watching the tea steam.
Thankfully, the tea is now done, so he calls Henry over and gives him the drink, neatly dodging Mariella’s continued lecture. Another customer comes in and Mariella walks over to help, conveniently giving her something better to do besides judging Stanley’s life choices.
When he looks over, though, Henry hasn’t left the counter. Instead, he’s squinting at Stanley’s hurried scrawl on his cup of tea.
Stanley walks over. “Is something wrong?”
Henry scowls. “You misspelled my name here, you know.” He points at Stanley’s rough scrawl on his cup, which truthfully looks far more like a scribble of lines than his name. Stanley likes to call it the barista shorthand. Mariella calls it “ absolutely atrocious handwriting, honestly Stanley, it’s almost impressive”. Stanley is begrudgingly impressed that Henry can even read it, to be honest. He’s probably a writer, Stanley decides.
“I’m sorry, but how exactly did I misspell it?” Stanley isn’t seeing the error. It says Nenry, which is clearly how you spell Henry.
Henry stares at him, gobsmacked, before clearing his throat. “I beg your pardon? My name starts with an H, not an N. It’s one of the most common male names in the world, HOW did you not figure that out?”
Stanley blinks. An… H? Where? The caffeine still hasn’t kicked in, so he takes the cup, shoves an H somewhere into the scrawl of lines, and hands it back to Henry.
Henry stares. Blinks. Blinks again. “...Not quite. This says Nenhry.”
…So that’s not correct either. Seriously, where is the H? Getting frustrated, Stanley tries again to imagine where it might be, and fails. Maybe at the end? It’s worth a shot, and he writes another H near where he thinks the end is.
Henry sighs. “That says Nhenhry - I give up, give me that. I can’t believe you can’t even do something as simple as writing Henry correctly,” and pulls the cup of tea right out of Stanley’s hands.
It takes a moment for Stanley to process that the tea is gone and that Henry is now glaring at Stanley while he takes a sip of it.
…And then promptly spits that tea out across the counter. Stanley winces. He’s going to have to clean that up again.
Time seems to slow. Henry's mouth curls into a snarl as the tea drips down the counter. A few seconds of stony silence envelop Stanley like an unwelcome chill.
It's not the first time Stanley's seen an angry customer, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. But the look of absolute fury on this man’s face made the blood drain from Stanley's own. There's something different about Henry’s anger.
If only Henry wasn't so attractive, maybe Stanley wouldn't have that traitorous voice in the back of his head telling him to rile up the customer even more. The older man was strangely compelling even with the ridiculous sight of tea running down his chin and the sharp scowl on his face.
Stanley startles when Henry leans into his space and squints at his nametag. "Excuse me…. Stanley?" he asks, voice deadly calm.
"...Yes?" he squeaks in reply. God, the way he says his name was so….
"Your job is to make tea, correct?"
Actually, it's making coffee, he wants to say, but smartly keeps his mouth shut and nods instead.
"And you've been doing this for how long?"
"Uhhh… two years…?"
"Good. I just wanted to ask: How much of a bloody moron are you?" Henry's tone trembles with rage. "First you get my name wrong, not one, not two, but three times, and now you can't be arsed to make something suitable for human consumption?! Your tea is practically a biohazard in the making! It's a wonder you even get any customers!"
He gestures to the still-empty shop, which okay, was really unfair considering it was an especially slow day. Mariella had been helping another customer earlier, too. Stanley grits his teeth and tries to keep a level face.
"Sorry, sir, we–"
"Save it. I'm taking my business elsewhere. Lost my appetite, and now I'm late to a meeting with my editor–" the older man mutters the last few words so quietly that Stanley could barely hear them. "–Christ. Sod it. My mood is ruined, look what you've done."
Without waiting for a reply, Henry strides right out of the coffee shop, leaving behind a stunned Stanley in his wake.
Mariella leans on the register and watches the door shut behind Henry. “So that’s the guy you’re into now?”
Stanley slumps onto the counter. He’s definitely not awake enough for this.