Chapter Text
The soundtrack pairing for this chapter is Recharge by Yasumu: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0S-jLVA-T40
It is four in the morning, and Johnny is outrunning rain clouds. He can smell the rain on the air, so he quickens his pace down the block. As he arrives at four fifteen, the first rain drops land on his shoulders.
Johnny unlocks the door to his cafe and enters just before the heavy rain starts. He looks back through the window, over the 'veteran owned' sticker. Outrunning storms does not have the same thrill as outrunning terrorists, but that is fine. He made the change for his own good.
The Potluck Cafe, his cafe, has five tables and twenty chairs. Three dignified, antique couches are stuffed into the corners. They look very nice, considering they were from the local thrift shop. The chairs and tables are from the thrift shop, too. He had cleaned, re-sanded, and refinished them a week before opening the shop, and he had been delighted by compliments about how they looked new.
By five in the morning, the sourdough loaves, English muffins, and secret-ingredient cinnamon rolls are proofing. As his breads proof, he makes traditional scones and prepares the coffee pots. As everything goes into the oven, he goes into the back room to prepare ingredients like fluffy scrambled eggs and tomato slices for sandwiches. When the sourdough has cooled, he slices a few loaves, assembles the sandwiches, and wraps them in parchment paper. They are wrapped securely with twine and set with the cooling pastries.
It smells like Saturday morning every day in here, and he likes it that way.
The secret ingredient cinnamon rolls are slathered in generous, tangy icing. They cannot be too sweet, or the secret ingredient will not shine.
He opens his cafe at six, and he knows his competition, Patsy, of Patsy's Premium Goods, is only now stumbling out of bed. As Johnny unlocks the door, he turns on a neon gold light that has a uniquely soft glow. It says 'The Potluck Cafe' in sunset lighting, and he takes a moment to appreciate how the light is a soothing balm against the hard rain.
Locals flock as soon as he opens, and his cinnamon rolls sell out by lunch. Johnny is surprised; he cooked a double batch today. Most odd, his competitor, Patsy, of Patsy's Premium Goods, actually bought the last six.
“These can't be worth the hype.” Patsy, of Patsy's Premium Goods, scowls as he tosses his credit card at Johnny. It hits the table like a line drawn in the sand.
Johnny slowly picks the card off the table and swipes it. Aggression is radiating from Patsy, and Johnny can practically taste it. His gut feeling is an instinct left over from reading body language in the military. He knows Patsy is up to something, and he knows from experience how to deal with men like him.
Johnny wraps the bun box with a lovely bow and hands it over with a soft smile.
“No reason we can't be friends,” Johnny offers. “We're both just trying to make a living.”
Patsy snatches the box out of his hands, and Johnny wonders if he even knows five people with which to share the rolls. Johnny watches him leave.
Also watching Patsy is Grey, the next customer in line, and Johnny's childhood friend. They had gone into the military together.
“You know he is trying to duplicate your recipe, right? He has been trying for a week now,” Grey says.
“Why bother?” Johnny laughs. “He does double my business. He can't feel that threatened.”
“That used to be true,” Grey corrects, “but most locals come here now. The quality is much higher.”
Johnny takes a moment to analyze his cafe. He knows almost every face, and he realizes that he has earned local business. It is incredibly validating. All of it was built from scratch, too. He had patched the walls, ripped out the rug and laid new tile, and repaired or replaced all of the equipment. This place fully belongs to Johnny, and he likes it that way. Always doing something keeps him busy, keeps him happy, keeps the rain clouds away.
“Must be the new sign. It took an hour, but I got the lighting just right.” Johnny nods at the soft yellow glow.
Grey squints at it, shrugs, and turns back. “If you say so. I need a dozen short breads-- my missus will rip my head off if she finds out I ate the last one. And three cinnamon buns, if you have any hiding in the back.”
“Sorry mate, none in the back. We're sold out. You'll have to sweet talk Patsy for one.”
Grey groans. “She is gonna kill me, now, Johnny. Can you hold three for me tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Johnny says as he quickly writes a note to remind himself. “But listen, if you can wait a few minutes for me to deal with the line, I can make you something special, on the house, to make up for it.”
“You'd do that for me?”
“For a childhood friend whose pregnant wife might kill him if he does not return home with something tasty, yeah.”
“I'll wait. Take your time, Johnny.”
Johnny finishes taking his note and surveys the cafe to see if he has time to make Grey the little-something. The line has cleared for a moment, and, as he takes a breath, the door opens. Three huge men enter. Johnny waits.
Are they professional rugby players? They are built like rugby players. One wears a black medical mask and keeps his hood up, which Johnny thinks is odd. The other two are obscured by hats and scarves. Hoodie slinks away to an unoccupied couch while Hats And Scarves approach the register.
“What can I get you?”
“Two lattes, two egg and cheese toasties, and two blueberry-lemon scones.”
“Want the toasties heated up?” Johnny asks.
“No, and let me pay, John.”
John... everyone is bloody named John, are they not? But John is a familiar name, and his voice is just-similar enough to be more than a coincidence.
Johnny had worked with a John Price four years ago. However, this man seems clean shaven under the scarf. Johnny had known John Price to have a beard and mutton chops.
Working with John Price had been an honor, and serving with the 141 had been the pinnacle of his military career. After all, he had worked alongside The Ghost...
He blinks. He is not ready to think about The Ghost. He has not, since Las Almas, been ready to think about Ghost again.
“Not a chance I'm letting you pay,” Maybe-John-Price says, and he hands over cash. Johnny gives him change.
“He really didn't want anything?”
John shakes his head. “Best leave him be.”
Johnny prepares the order and steals glances at the reticent third. He is soaked to the bone from the rain. He should be shivering, but he is not. He looks slumped over, exhausted.
“Lattes, scones, and sandwiches. Cheers, lads.”
“Thanks.”
They meet up at the couch for a chat. John and his friend seem totally at ease. The masked man is not. He has a relaxed posture, sure, but he is a statue compared to his companions. Instead of being rigid with nerves, he has sedated himself. Johnny wonders if he told himself that his muscles are too heavy to move, a technique used to trap the mind far away from bodily nerves. Johnny used to do that a lot, when he first got out of the military.
He cannot afford to keep staring; he needs to finish Grey's order.
Johnny grabs a few classic scones and brings them into the back. A few minutes later, he returns with a twine-wrapped box and the bag of short breads.
“You have a real talent for this, Johnny,” Grey says. He takes the bag, inhales deeply, and sighs.
“Put this in the oven at three fifty for twenty minutes,” he says, “and then add the icing. Should make you and the missus happy.”
“Already am, mate,” he says, “I'm also just glad you found a passion that does not include explosions.”
“Don't tempt me. I can get pretty creative with my oven.”
“You better not. You're too much of a local favorite to fail... but to be honest, none of us can figure out how you do it all on your own.”
“I like this small operation,” Johnny says. “If it gets too big, I won't be able to run it myself.”
If Johnny is introspective, and he keeps himself too busy to be introspective, some aspects of the cafe are very hard to juggle. Most tables are messy, and he will not have a chance to wipe them down until the line is dealt with, and there is always a line. He had set up a bin for dirty dishes in the morning, but that is overflowing by now. The coffee station supplies are totally empty. Johnny knows that these are problems, but he wants to be busier than he can handle. It is how he outran the rain clouds in the first place. It is why he left the military.
“Hey, Grey, do you recognize those three?” Johnny asks.
Grey glances at the three men and shrugs. “No.”
“Right. I might be out of my mind--”
“Already are, mate--”
“But I wonder if they are from the military base. There's no chance that's John Price, is it?”
Grey squints. “I honestly can't tell. Did they pay with a card? If they did, you could check the name.”
“No, they paid with cash.”
“Only way is to ask them, then. Gotta get back to my wife. Thanks for saving my ass.”
Johnny stares at the three men, and he struggles to find any identifying markers. The masked man makes eye contact with him, more than once, and Johnny feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. These long stares feel too personal to be from a stranger.
Then a flood of customers blocks Johnny's view, and his wish to be busier than he can handle comes true at the worst possible time.
He becomes a whirlwind of orders. Despite the clear setbacks of being a one man show, he has designed the layout behind the counter effectively. Every pastry is within reach. Teas are already prepped in bags and are awaiting hot water while their timers stand at the ready. Johnny brings the same cool efficiency of bomb disarmament to juggling cafe orders with a smile.
An hour later, the line is finally clear. Johnny can return to studying today's intrigue, if they are still there.
John Price, if it was John Price, is gone, and so is his friend. Only the masked man remains.
Surely it is just a coincidence. It could not have been John Price, Johnny decides, because if it had been John Price, why did he not say something? It should be far easier for price to recognize Johnny than for Johnny to recognize Price.
What Johnny does know is that the third is most likely military. Johnny can usually sniff out vets, and this vet, he can tell, is deeply uncomfortable here. This leads him to wonder, why had they left him alone?
Johnny has always liked a gamble. So, he grabs a mug, hedges his bets, and approaches.
“Hey.” Johnny slides the man a rich Darjeeling tea.
The man blinks slowly. He looks completely worn out. “I didn't order this.”
“I know. Military discount.”
“What gave it away?”
“Posture.” Johnny turns away to look for customers. None are waiting at the counter. He has some time to talk. “And the fatigue. You stand out, mate.”
“You do, too,” the man says, and he clears his throat. “It's... uh... it's been a while, Johnny.”
Johnny startles. “How did you--”
“You were easier to find than expected. I thought I'd have to chase you halfway around the world.”
“You looked me up.” Johnny withdraws, and his shoulders tense. This man must be someone high-up. It is not the first time since retirement that some jackass assembling a task force has stalked him. Is that what this is really about? Maybe that man was not John Price. Maybe all three of them were scoping this place out-- scoping him out.
Johnny wonders, 'am I being watched?'
“I did, Johnny,” the man says, and his voice is strange, almost urgent. It is also familiar, but Johnny cannot place it, let alone recognize any feature of his obscured face.
It does not matter. This man is a problem. He needs to leave.
“If you looked me up, then you must have seen my records. Did you get clearance for that?”
“I had a clear view of the file, if that's what you're asking.”
“My record,” Johnny says in a low voice, “is confidential.”
All of the things Johnny had done... does this man know about them? This is worse than feeling naked. This feels like every scar on his body is splitting open to raw air. He had left because of command. He had left to try to forget, and yet rain clouds still chase him.
“It is confidential,” the man agrees, “and it is impressive.”
Impressive? That is an odd word to use, considering Johnny had been dishonorably discharged for refusing to complete an assignment.
“I'm going to tell you what I told the others.”
“The others?” The man cocks his head to the side. Johnny thinks he is very good at pretending to be confused.
“I left the military behind. I burned bridges on purpose.”
“I know,” the man is speaking faster, “but this isn't--”
“Why are you here? Another pitch for a new task force?”
This man had not ordered anything, and he had been watching Johnny for the better part of an hour and a half. He had looked up Johnny's file. Johnny has burned quite a few bridges. What is it to him to burn one more bridge with a stranger who will not show his face?
“Johnny-- wait-- let me--”
Johnny points to the door. “Get out of my shop.”
“... Johnny?”
“Now.”
The cafe is quiet. Johnny fumes, and the locals give suspicious glances at the man who angered their baker. The masked man stands and slides a ten pound note on the table. Then, he silently heads out into the rain.
Johnny leaves the note and goes back behind the counter. He has spent a long time outrunning rain clouds. He has gotten very good at recognizing them before they head his way.