Chapter Text
There was one single thing all cat owners around the globe could agree on with unmatched ease: no matter how accurate your alarm clock is, your furry little companion would be, without a doubt, better. Sadly, Soap had to learn this lesson the hard way.
At this point, you may wonder what the problem was. After all, having an unbelievable precise alarm couldn’t possibly be bad, right? In most cases, you would be completely right. Until you realize that cats only have one setting when waking their humans – as early as possible.
They’re animals. Even worse, they’re hungry animals. Which means they don’t care that your shift only starts at 2:00 PM and that you could, theoretically, get several more hours of wonderful sleep. Nope. Instead, they will be standing on your bed at the crack of dawn, screaming into your face as loud as their tiny little demon lungs allow.
That means eardrum-rupturing levels, of course.
“Och, shut yer puss,” Soap groaned, turning his face into his pillow while his arm blindly swatted at the culprit.
Greg, the blue British Shorthair that was currently crying about how miserable his life was, remained completely unbothered by the thickness of Soap’s accent. Whether Soap was speaking perfect British English or not, Greg would not give a single fuck about what anyone wanted him to do. Soap’s commands were, if possible, given even less fucks. Typical cat behavior, through and through.
“Jus’ gi’ me one damn second, ye wee dobber.” The request was met by even more screaming, almost as if it had doubled. Which might be because that was exactly the case.
Ah great, Soap thought, they’re both awake. An attempt at rubbing his eyes was made yet failed, instead diverted to just randomly running his hand over his face.
Prying his eyes open shouldn’t be a Herculean effort, but Soap managed either way, immediately shifting away from the duo of felines standing over his head to glance at his actual alarm clock on his bedside table. 6:23 AM, the bold red letters proclaimed. Soap muttered a curse under his breath, sinking deeper under the blanket. Only to be met by another drawn out meow right next to his ear.
Finally, Soap realized that hoping for more sleep would be fruitless endeavor. In one swift motion, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, shoving the blanket to the side (careful not to hit Greg or Overlord, a calico and Greg’s partner in crime). Deeming their crusade successful, the two cats jumped down onto the floor, circling Soap’s legs.
“¡Puta madre! Could you hurry up and give those things some food before they wake up the whole neighborhood?” came a call from somewhere in the apartment. Soap grimaced, hurrying to get up and into the hallway.
“Working on it.” This time, Soap put considerably more effort into being understandable. No need to give Alejandro even more trouble by sprinkling some dialect into his second language.
Although Alejandro’s reply was too quiet to be heard over the kitchen radio, Soap was pretty sure it wasn’t particularly nice. He tried not to be too hurt by it, knowing that the man could have only returned from his shift a couple of moments ago, perhaps an hour at most.
Since there was no sign of Rudy, Soap had to assume the man was either sleeping or already at work (still?). The longer Soap lived together with these two, the more he realized that firefighter and paramedic didn’t make for a great mix concerning schedules. How these two managed to have a working relationship at all was beyond Soap.
Dragging himself through the living room and into the kitchen, Soap found himself pout at the snakes kept in the living room. They surely didn’t attack Alejandro’s ankles if he didn’t serve them their food fast enough. Or, well, perhaps they did. Soap never paid that much attention to their feeding. Compared to cats though, anything else just had to be civil.
The kitchen was already occupied by Alejandro leaning against the small kitchen island, his phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Proud snake dad, the mug read. The old radio they had sitting in an overcrowded shelf was tuned in on some generic pop station that only played the current charts.
Soap scowled at how cold the tiled floor was against his bare feet, hurrying to the cupboard he kept the cat food in. He would have to buy some soon, it seemed.
“Mornin’ tae ye,” Soap greeted, mentally kicking himself for slipping into his accent again. Alejandro didn’t comment on it, simply grunting in response and not even looking up from his phone. Considering he still wore a rather uncomfortable looking pair of jeans, Soap’s assumptions concerning Alejandro’s recent arrival must have been correct.
“Where’s Rudy?” As Soap placed the now filled steel bowls on the floor, his two monsters ceased their complaints at last. The sound was replaced by Greg and Overlord gobbling down their food.
“Asleep.”
Wincing, Soap reached up to his neck, fidgeting with the dog tags that rested there, rearranging them much more than strictly necessary. Here was to hoping Rudy had slept through the ruckus. Yes, according to the colorful schedule on the fridge, he should have been at work already. In reality though? Well, Soap’s roommates came and went at intervals he had long since given up on categorizing, let alone keeping track of.
“It’s still on,” Alejandro said when Soap stifled a yawn, pointing at the coffee machine with his own mug. Even when Alejandro wasn’t looking, Soap nodded in thanks, going to grab a mug himself. He definitely needed some caffeine. “Are you working today?”
“Aye.”
Alejandro glanced at the fridge, then back down to his phone. “Later?”
“Aye.”
“The fuck are you doing awake then?”
“You think I can sleep through that?” Soap gestured towards his cats, both of them eating so fast he was sure at least one of them would throw up their breakfast the moment they had finished.
“You did,” Alejandro shrugged. “For about half an hour, actually.”
Oh. This new medication his doctor had prescribed really had it in them, Soap discovered for the hundredth time. Usually, a key turning in the front door was enough to wake him – something that had started as an occupational disease and then refused to leave his life. And yet he had two cats standing over him for an entire thirty minutes and he hadn’t so much as stirred.
Whether this was good or bad, Soap still hadn’t decided.
When Alejandro moved to scratch his jaw, Soap’s own tingled in sympathy. While Alejandro was a man of organized chaos, his black beard and hair were something he always kept in perfect order. So for both of those to be so messy, these past few shifts must have started taking their toll.
Shifting his dog tags between his fingers again, Soap regarded his cats before looking over at Hookfang and Yadriel – the two snakes inhabiting the living room, both of which were curled up either around a branch or in the corner of their terrarium. Yep, he had definitely made a wrong choice regarding his pets. But what can you do? He loved them regardless.
God, he sounded like one of those soccer mums talking about her kids.
With a coffee in hand now, Soap had exactly one second to wonder what he would do with the rest of this morning before a sharp pain shot through his left knee. Closing his eyes with a sigh, Soap reached down to massage the joint gently.
At least this gave Soap an itinerary to start his day with. Step one: get breakfast. Step two: take some painkillers.
Setting his mug down on the counter, Soap got to work.
It’s interesting how many people would consider London a synonym for bad weather. Dark clouds and constant rain were always named in the very same sentence as the city. In truth – and this was something Soap loved to point out – England’s capital was one of the driest in the entirety of Europe and that was saying something.
As such, Soap didn’t find it odd at all to step out of the apartment complex and be welcomed by the sun shining high in the sky. It was September and summer hadn’t left the city just yet, the trees lining the street green and full as ever.
Walking past his car had become a habit by now, making Soap wonder why he hadn’t sold it yet. All things considered, the Underground proved much faster, less stressful and with the constantly climbing gas prices also a lot cheaper than trying to fight through London’s traffic.
Most people started their work much earlier in the day, so the wagon Soap chose was refreshingly empty, allowing him to let his mind wander in peace as the train shot through the tunnels. Honestly, Soap should think about taking on the closing shift regularly, simply so he could enjoy the fifteen-minute journey in quiet. Then again, it would mean working less with Gaz, a proud defender of the merits of the morning shift.
The Thames glistened like an expensive jewel as Soap strolled alongside it for a couple of minutes, before taking a sharp right and heading north. With its proximity to popular sights – such as Hyde Park, Kensington Palace and the Natural History Museum – it was no wonder the café was most popular among tourists. They had a couple of regulars as well, but even if Soap would prefer to only chat with those all day long, he knew that the tourists brough in a huge chunk of their revenue. And, in turn, Soap’s paycheck.
Three years had passed since his rather drastic change of career and yet a part of Soap remained that couldn’t quite believe he was actually working at a café. Not many traded an assault rifle for an apron, but there were also only a handful of people that could deny their former CO when he asks them to work in his café – and Soap was not one of them.
Then again, very few commanding officers bought a café. Really, Soap’s situation was an unusual one all around.
Call of Coffee, read the sign above the door in golden lettering, polished so much you could almost mistake it for the true metal. Seeing as all of this had started with a phone call from Captain Price – or just Price now, Soap supposed – the name was truly a stroke of irony.
Despite the sound of a bell ringing being the go-to image inside everyone’s brain when thinking about opening the door to a café, this was not true for Call of Coffee. Not that they didn’t have a bell, they definitely did. It just wasn’t the first thing you heard upon entering.
“What doing?” a squeaky voice asked from above as Soap stepped inside, drawing out the ‘o’ particularly long. If those weren’t enough hints to realize the voice’s owner wasn’t human, the blue feathers that were shoved in Soap’s face not even a full second later would do the trick. Apparently, Hamlet tried to land on his head, only to lose his footing and aim for Soap’s shoulder instead.
“What doing?” the bird repeated, as if to overplay the lack of skill he displayed a moment ago.
“Mornin’ tae ye, Hamlet.” Soap scratched the parrot’s head carefully. After all, four ounces of bird was not that much. Either way, Hamlet chirped at the attention, leaning into the touch and only fluttering away again once Soap stopped.
While pets might be one hell of a no-go in most cafés and restaurants, Soap could easily identify who was currently on shift simply by doing a headcount of the animals. Hamlet, for example, always came in tow with one Kate Laswell – the very woman currently standing behind the counter. She hadn’t looked at Soap yet, though he was sure she had noticed him regardless.
Laswell was tall, only about two inches shorter than Soap himself. Her dirty blond hair was tied into a tight bun at all times while her sharp blue eyes flickered up to follow Hamlet’s trajectory. This time, he landed on her shoulder without a hitch, asking “Kisses?” a couple of times as he pressed his beak into the woman’s jaw.
“Hey Laswell,” Soap called out to his boss as he slid behind the counter, not stopping to wait for her reply as he headed for the door leading towards the back.
“Soap.” True to herself, Laswell didn’t look up from whatever papers she had spread out on the counter. It could be anything from bank statements to shipping information of impending order and all the way to reports of troop movement. The latter was highly unlikely nowadays, but with Laswell, you never knew.
The breakroom was empty when Soap dropped off his bag and jacket (it might be warm now but who was to say it would be when he left), grabbing an apron instead. König had been on the morning shift today, so it should be Gaz waiting for him – they had swapped shifts for some reason. He still had five minutes to go, nothing to worry about yet, but it was unusual for Gaz nevertheless and Soap would make sure to hold that over his head for the next month.
If Laswell was here, Soap didn’t even need to look for Price. Even when he knew Price would never put him in the same space as Lady Muffin, Soap couldn’t help how his shoulders dropped with the deep breath he let out. It was ridiculous, really. He should worry much more about any dogs brought in by customers, but he couldn’t be blamed for counting his blessings instead of his curses.
“Can you take the front?” Laswell called the moment Soap slid his phone into his back pocket and out of the view of his ever-vigilant manager.
“Coming!”
“Oh, and bring that folder from the table while you’re at it.”
As Laswell moved into the back, with Soap passing her the requested folder like a baton during a relay race, Hamlet decided that his owner was no longer the most interesting thing around. He came to rest on the cash register instead. Dark eyes immediately had Soap in their sights and Soap knew right then and there that the bird wouldn’t leave him be for the rest of his shift.
Letting his gaze wander through the café, Soap tilted his head, doing another headcount of the people around. It gave him the same result as his first impression had. Namely that the place was strangely empty. Shrugging to himself, Soap decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, relishing in the quiet instead.
The universe decided to punish him regardless.
It came in the form of Gaz, which in itself was not a punishment (at least most of the time), unless of course he brought a downright flood of customers with him. Now, Soap and Gaz were no strangers to stress and they could handle it well enough, yet Gaz had brought a true plague upon them. It got to the point where Laswell came back out to help them sort things out – you knew things had gone south if even your boss plunged into the fray.
Nearing two hours into his shift, Soap had to wonder if he had brought this upon himself somehow. Between his sister Isla and his two roommates, Soap knew enough people working in healthcare (or at least fields adjacent to it) that he had heard of the taboo surrounding words like quiet or slow. Really, every time Isla dug out one of her ER horror stories over family dinner, she prefaced it by cursing the name of the cocky intern that had dared to call the night quiet.
So, if anything, Soap only had himself to blame when the last customer of an especially large group of tourists finally sat down, giving him the time and space to slump against the counter, eyes cast to the sky as if there was any deity to thank.
“You know,” Soap began, prompting Gaz to pause whatever he was doing to look over at him with a raised brow, “days like these almost make me wish they were shooting at us instead of ordering fifteen different kinds of coffee.”
“Almost,” Gaz stressed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know about you, but I prefer cranky accountants over near-death experiences any day.”
“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Soap’s grin had Gaz rolling his eyes, softly shaking his head as he returned to his previous task.
“Did anyone ever check to see if those IEDs caused any lasting brain damage in you?”
“You can’t damage something that was never there, Gaz,” came Laswell’s call from the office.
“Oi!” Soap scrambled to reply while Gaz doubled over in laughter, one hand on the counter to support his weight. As if being humiliated by hiss boss and coworker wasn’t already enough, Hamlet joined in as well, chirping loudly. Because nothing was worse than having a bird laugh at you.
“Away an’ bile yet heid, th’lot o’ you’se!”
“English, if you would be so kind,” Gaz managed to breath out, wiping away a tear from his eye.
“Fuck you, asshole,” was the very eloquent reply Gaz received in turn.
“Fuck you!”
Both Gaz and Soap froze, their heads slowly turning towards the bird perched on the cash register, flapping his wings. Opening his mouth, Soap felt the need to say something, only to come up with a great pile of nothing as he stared at Hamlet.
“Did you…did you just reach Laswell’s bird profanities?”
Soap did, he supposed, as there was no other way of describing what they just witnessed. Let it be said at this point that Soap was no fearful man. If anything, his comrades had regularly complained about his apparent lack of it, resulting in what Soap called brave maneuvers while his superiors preferred the term ‘utterly reckless’.
Either way, there were few things Soap would admit being scared of.
Laswell was one of them.
“Crap,” Soap muttered under his breath (silently praying that Hamlet wouldn’t pick that phrase up too), already seeing his life flash before his eyes.
“That’s one way of putting it. But say, what flowers would you prefer at your funeral? I was thinking—”
“Shut up.”
“Shut up!” it came from Hamlet almost the same moment the words had left Soap’s mouth, followed by a groan from Soap.
“At first, you were simply digging your own grave. But it seems like you’re ambitious enough to aim straight for hell.”
“You’re not very helpful, Gaz.”
“Wasn’t my intention.”
To everyone’s surprise, the thing that saved Soap from further burying himself in this bottomless hole was the bell above the door jingling. For a moment, Soap wondered how it had managed to be faster than Hamlet, but that’s what he gets for distracting the bird with curses. Which he should probably make him forget sooner rather than later.
The very instant Hamlet realized a so far ungreeted customer had walked in, he was on them in a flash. Things got even more intense when the bird realized it was actually one of their regulars, showering the figure in a flurry of feathers, “What doing?”s and kisses.
“Oh, hey Roach,” Gaz went first, welcoming their friend as Roach himself tried to calm Hamlet’s excitement. Results varied in their degree of success, but at last, Roach managed to put the parrot on his shoulder, hands immediately forming signs once they were free.
“Hello guys.” Roach’s hands moved swiftly, yet the men behind the counter had little issue following them.
“König had the morning shift,” Soap said, relaxing slightly now that Roach had come to distract him from the impending doom that was to come once Laswell realized her beloved parrot now knew how to swear. “You’re a couple hours late.”
“I know. I’m not here because of him.”
It was only now that Soap analyzed the situation fully, spotting the figure standing behind Roach. In retrospect, Soap had no idea nor any plausible explanation as to why he hadn’t seen the man any sooner. Because truly, the guy was a goddamn mountain – and ever since working with König, Soap used phrases like that carefully.
Even with the distance between them, Soap had to guess the stranger easily cracked the six feet mark and went well beyond that, making Roach seem absolutely tiny next to him. Most of his features were hidden by a simple black mask, the kind people used to wear at the beginning of Covid, so all Soap could see was short blond hair (not dirty like Laswell’s nor reddish like Isla’s, but really blond) and unnervingly dark brown eyes that darted around the place, never settling on one thing for more than a few seconds.
“I brought a friend,” Roach continued, a smile hidden underneath his own greenish mask, only visible in his eyes.
And just like that, this shift had become much more interesting than Soap could have ever hoped it to be.
“I really don’t understand what your problem is,” Simon said as he spun around, almost tripping over one of Riley’s chew toys discarded in the hallway. He stopped short of throwing his hands in the air, bending down to pick the toy up instead and one well-aimed toss later, it was back in its designated box in the corner. If Riley wanted it again, he could get it from there and Simon wouldn’t break his neck in the meantime.
“My problem,” Roach began, practically running after Simon so that the other man could see his hands. It was no easy feat when Roach had to take three steps for every one of Simon’s, “is that you haven’t left your apartment ever since you came back.”
Scoffing, Simon moved to grab a glass from the kitchen counter. A leftover from breakfast. He moved to the sink to rinse it off, pausing a moment before collecting the other dishes scattered throughout the kitchen in piles of “I’ll do that later” only to be forgotten. The state of the kitchen was barely bordering the territories of messy, so Simon should better clean it up now.
“That’s not true. Been going out plenty. I’ve been literally out the whole morning.” Simon said it in a matter-of-fact tone, barricading the sink with a few bowls. Despite this makeshift wall and the fact that the kitchen was big enough for a whole army, Roach placed himself right next to Simon, leaning onto the counter to catch his friend’s eye.
Biting the inside of his cheek, Simon turned his head just enough to see Roach’s hands while his own busied themselves with the dishes.
“Only because you dropped off Joseph and took Riley for a walk. That doesn’t count.”
“And why doesn’t it? I left the apartment. For almost two hours, actually. Thus, your point is invalid.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“And you’re being unreasonable.”
Roach stopped his half-formed response, reaching up to drag a hand over his mouth instead. Without the mask he usually wore, Roach’s expression was painfully obvious. He must have noticed that himself because he turned away with his hands shoved into his pockets, leaving Simon to his self-appointed chore.
Without a word, Simon did exactly that, turning his attention back to the sink. Seriously, Roach was acting as if Simon had been locked away in his home for three years straight and that was very much an exaggeration. If only because Simon was sure he wouldn’t even make it to two weeks of no contact before Roach decided to break down his front door.
For now at least, the two had reached an impasse, prompting Roach to retreat and think of a new approach. Simon knew this dance well enough, for he and Roach had gone through it many times before. Every once in a while, Roach would deem something about Simon’s lifestyle unhealthy, urging him to change it through any means – only for Simon to dig his heels into the ground like a stubborn mule wanting to make things difficult. Most times, Simon won the resulting tug-of-war.
Either way, Simon didn’t mind the silence that this temporary truce brought him. Soon, all dishes were cleaned, dried and put back into their respective cupboards and Simon moved on to taking inventory of the tea he had left, then the fridge. As his thoughts got lost in these mundane tasks, Simon could almost forget Roach’s presence in the kitchen, his mind sinking deep into the sweet abyss of nothingness.
Even if they were rare, Simon liked moments like this. Perhaps their scarcity only made him enjoy them more. Moments in which he didn’t have to carefully choose his words, his clothes, his everything. Moments in which he didn’t have to play border control between the two halves of his life that had to be so meticulously separated and kept that way.
Because in moments like that, moments like right now? He was simply Simon, doing the dishes in his London apartment. Nothing more, nothing less. And that was more than fine to him.
By the time Roach nudged Simon’s arm to regain his attention, Simon had begun to wonder if Roach had waited until there was nothing in the kitchen Simon could turn to in order to avoid the conversation. If that was indeed the case, Roach should know better than underestimate the importance of suddenly rearranging the living room.
“I’m worried,” Roach said, drawing his brows together. Not a single word more.
That little bastard, Simon thought. His lips pursed as he realized what Roach had just done – pulling out the last ace from up his sleeve.
Over the course of a friendship as long as theirs, the two men had butted heads more than once. Sometimes they had been little disagreements, forgotten by the next morning and sometimes, they wouldn’t talk for an entire week afterwards. Both had happened often enough. Yet there was one thing they had agreed on, if not verbally than through connection of having spend years of their life alongside each other.
One phrase that meant all emotions would be laid to the side for the moment and that whatever followed had to be truly and thoroughly listened to, no matter what.
And that phrase just happened to be “I’m worried”.
So yes, Roach was being a complete and utter little shit.
“Roach, there’s nothing to be worried about,” Simon sighed, getting nothing but a scowl from Roach in return. He was not going against the I’m-worried-agreement if he was simply speaking the truth, or so Simon found. “I just want my break to be relaxing. Is that too much to ask for?”
“No.”
“Okay, then why are we even having this conversation?”
“Because this” – Roach gestured to the entirety of Simon’s apartment— “is not decompressing after a tour. I wouldn’t be nagging you if you were binging some TV show or baking a bunch of cookies. What you’re doing here, Simon, is hiding. Plain and simple.”
“I am not—”
“Yes. Yes, you are. Let’s take another example. When was the last time you talked to someone that wasn’t Joseph? And no, Riley doesn’t count.” There had been a time where Simon thought it would be impossible to be interrupted by someone speaking sign language. That was before he met Roach.
“I’m talking to your right now, aren’t I?” Roach paused, blinking slowly before putting both hands on his face, dragging them upwards into his hair. That expression needed no translation – Simon saw it more often than he liked.
“That’s it. We’re going for a walk.” Roach had hardly finished signing the last word when he turned around, marching into the hallway and leaving Simon to run after him.
“Wait a second—”
Roach stopped so quickly, Simon ran straight into him. Both had to take a step back so Simon could see the stern “No” thrown into the air before Roach spun back around and returned to his task. Which apparently consisted of getting their shoes. Without much preamble, Roach dropped Simon’s sneakers in front of him, throwing a mask he grabbed out of Simon’s jacket at his face (Simon caught it easily enough, but still, rude).
“Bloody hell. Are you at least telling me where exactly you’re dragging me?”
“What, so you can argue with me about it?”
“No.” Yes. “But if I’m gonna show my face in public, I’d like to know where.”
“Don’t act as if anyone is going to recognize you,” Roach said, pausing in the motion of tying his shoes to do so.
“Gary.” That did get Roach’s attention, although it also earned Simon a huff from his friend, who only rose after finishing his shoes, meeting Simon’s gaze.
“You know that König works in a café, right?”
“Sure. That’s where you met him, isn’t it?” That phrasing made it seem as if Roach hadn’t told Simon every little detail about his developing relationship with the Austrian man, to the point where Simon could probably recount all the breaths König ever took in his life.
“Exactly. We’re going there.” In hindsight, Simon should have seen that coming.
“Okay,” Simon said with a short nod, shrugging on his shoes with little enthusiasm. “I propose a deal.” Roach thought for a moment before shrugging, opening his hands in invitation for Simon to continue.
“We’re going to that café or whatever. Then, we’ll do an hour of forced socializing, not a single minute more, and then I get to go home. And once I’ve endured all that, you’re leaving me alone for the next month.”
Roach crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes slightly. Chewing on his lip, he took a moment to mull over Simon’s conditions.
“Two weeks. I’ll leave you be for two weeks. Not more.”
“Goddammit,” Simon breathed out but really, it was more than he had expected from Roach. “Okay, fine. Two weeks it is. But we’ll take my car.”
That, however, had Roach’s eyes widening as he shook his had frantically. “No, absolutely not. We’re taking my car.”
“So you can squeeze out more time after the hour is done? Nope. We’re taking my car and you can leave with the tube.” Simon’s heart beat fast enough to squeeze into his throat at the mere thought of using the Underground and Roach knew that. So why in the world would he not agree to this simple request?
“Okay. We can take your car. But I’m driving.”
“Definitely not.”
“It’s either that or my car.”
“You’re not touching my car.”
“Simon.”
“Gary.”
The two paused again, staring each other down. Neither dared to blink, almost as if the staring contest alone would decide who would win this argument.
Roach blinked first. For the record.
“Fucking hell, okay. You win. Your car and you’re driving,” Roach finally signed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“Great. Let me just get Riley then.”
“No,” Roach interjected instantly, swatting at Simon’s hand that was already reaching for the harness and leash hanging from the hook on the wall. “No Riley.”
“And why—ouch!” With a hiss, Simon drew his hand away from the harness, rubbing the back of it. That last slap was unnecessarily hard.
“Because the whole point of this is that you do something without Joseph or Riley.”
“Riley doesn’t like staying alone.” The lie was easily seen through by Roach, who raised a brow the moment those words left Simon’s mouth. Perhaps it was not the smartest idea to use the habits of a dog Roach had known for years against him.
“Really? Since when?”
“Okay, perhaps I’m the one who doesn’t like to be alone.” Or well, without Riley at least. There was just something about having a big German Shepherd around that got people to leave him alone.
“You’re a big boy. You can manage.”
“You are one mean bastard, Roach.”
“Stop whining and put your shoes on.”
It was on days like these that Simon wondered why exactly he had to go on ahead and pick a best friend as equally stubborn as himself.
Why Roach had never tried to bring him to the café before, Simon didn’t know. It could be that Roach had wanted to play it safe until his relationship with König was stable. Or maybe Roach had known that Simon would fight Roach tooth and nail before agreeing to this – which, as Simon had proven today, was a completely valid assumption to make.
Either way, Simon was glad it wasn’t too far from his apartment in Camberwell. Crossing the Thames up into South Kensington should have taken them about twenty minutes, traffic being the only thing pushing it up to thirty. Which Simon would take over the Underground any day.
Roach didn’t appear all too happy about being stuck as the navigator, clutching his seat belt so tightly his knuckles had started to turn white. Once Simon parked, Roach was out of the car so fast, Simon could barely even turn the engine off. He had to practically run after his friend to catch up.
A part of Simon was surprised Roach had chosen such a classy borough to find his favorite café in, considering they both disliked the stuck-up people that frequented these neighborhoods with a burning passion. If the other employees were anything like König though – a man Simon had talked shockingly little with despite him being Roach’s boyfriend for over a year now, mainly because König generally didn’t speak all that much – it couldn’t be that bad, right?
It was a nice day for late summer, the sun now feeling a lot warmer than it had in the morning, many hours earlier. A soft breeze brushed over the city, the leaves high up in the tree rustling softly while Simon pondered if he should have worn a jacket.
Call of Coffee, read the sign Roach pointed at. A peculiar name, Simon found. The café itself was a tiny little thing, all things considered, squeezed in between a French restaurant and an expensive looking jewelry shop on either side. The storefront was painted a deep, calm green that reminded Simon of the trees lining the street, under which several wooden tables were scattered, all of them occupied.
While Roach led him through the sea of people with ease, Simon found his mouth going dry. Forming an awkward first with his right hand, Simon played with the ring on his middle finger, using his thumb to twist it around. None of the other customers paid them any mind, but for Simon, that didn’t matter much. They were here and they were loud. Very loud.
Yes, he understood now why Roach had never proposed this idea before.
As they approached the door, Simon found many signs littering the glass, the most prominent one probably being the big chalk board reading OPEN. The others were too plentiful for Simon too read every single one – he only managed to comprehend one welcoming pets inside, given that they knew how to behave themselves and another that was worded almost passive-aggressively. It said: Hamlet will ambush anyone entering the café. No, there’s nothing we can do about that. Deal with it.
There was only a short moment of uncertainty where Simon could wonder who – or rather what – Hamlet was when Roach opened the door. A tiny bell above it announced their arrival, though the first note couldn’t even play fully before Roach was practically attacked by a flurry of blue, followed by excited chirping. Some of the squeaks sounded suspiciously like “What doing?” and “Kisses” but Simon couldn’t be completely sure.
Roach’s shoulders shook with laughter as he did his best to calm the bird (Hamlet, if Simon had to guess) until it would finally settle on his shoulder, screaming “Kisses!” one more time and pressing its beak into Roach’s masked jaw.
Meanwhile, Simon used this moment to take in the interior of the café. It fit the outside in its colors – light earthy tones like beige and soft brown mixed with serene shades of green. A bunch of plants were distributed throughout the room, though Simon couldn’t distinguish any specific pattern. Some stood on the tables and counter (both made of wood that was a tad too dark to be oak, so perhaps chestnut, although Simon’s knowledge of wood colorations didn’t go that far) while others rested on shelves or hung from the ceiling.
A few bookshelves could be spotted in the far corner, more or less filled up and the wall beside them was covered in pictures, most of them pets it seemed. Even when most people had decided to lounge outside, the inside was fairly busy as well, only a few empty tables remaining here and there.
The smell of coffee hung heavy in the thick air, attacking Simon’s nose. It was followed by an onslaught of noise, an unnerving mix between the chatter of the patrons and music coming from some hidden speakers Simon didn’t manage to locate.
Before even realizing it, Simon’s teeth found the inside of his cheeks again and he quickly stuffed his hands into his pockets, hiding the constant shifting with his ring. Trying to focus again, Simon pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, the cold metal of his piercing giving him a welcomed distraction.
“Oh, hey Roach,” a voice said and Simon’s attention snapped back to the scene at hand.
The voice belonged to a man standing behind the counter, probably about the same age as Simon and Roach. He had dark brown skin and although his hair was hidden beneath an army green cap, his beard suggested it would be black. A silver piercing stood out against his eyebrow, catching Simon’s eye. The man, “Gaz” as his nametag read, greeted Roach with a laid-back smile, hands casually resting on the counter.
“Hello guys.” The flow of Roach’s signs was swift, light and easy. Which meant that the employees here apparently knew sign language well enough.
“König had the morning shift. So, you’re a couple hours late.”
That had come from the man standing next to Gaz. His voice had an obvious Scottish accent to it and while it was easy to understand nonetheless, his tone had something strained to it. As if he actively tried to speak clearly. John, as his nametag suggested, was a couple of inches shorter than his colleague, with the two of them falling somewhere between Simon and Roach in terms of height.
John’s hair danced on the line between black and brown and was cut into a mohawk – definitely a style one didn’t see too often. A net of interwoven scars drew Simon’s gaze to John’s chin, where the man’s beard grew spotty around the old wound. However, it was John’s eyes that captivated Simon the most, with their intense blue color that almost seemed to glint in the light.
“I know. I’m not here because of him.” Gaz and John leaned forward ever so slightly at that information, as if it was unheard of that Roach didn’t come here to visit König. “I brought a friend.”
And just like that, all eyes were on Simon. He did his best not to sink in on himself as their stares settled heavy on his skin, making him wish he had his full face covered and not only the lower half. As his fists clenched in his pockets, Simon pressed his tongue further up, hoping that the feel of the piercing would distract him now as it had done a few moments ago.
It was only semi-successful.
Once this was over, Simon had suddenly decided, he was definitely going to murder Roach. Looking for a new social media manager appeared like a small sacrifice in comparison right now. At the moment, however, Simon had a bigger problem. Namely that everyone was watching him closely, apparently waiting for him to say something.
“Name’s Simon,” he hurried to say, hoping that neither of the other men would try to rope him into a conversation. They worked in customer service. They would know if someone wasn’t up for talking, right?
“I’m Gaz,” replied the man Simon had noticed first, pointing at himself before gesturing at his coworker, continuing, “and everyone calls this idiot here Soap.”
“Watch it,” John – or rather Soap. What the hell kind of name was Soap anyways? – jumped in with a scowl, though his expression remained calm. “Anyways, welcome to our humble little establishment. Any friend of Roach’s can make themselves at home here.” As he talked, Soap opened his arms to motion at the café like it was some kind of grand castle, home to kings and queens alike.
While Simon had been preoccupied with introductions, the parrot that had ambushed Roach upon their entry had started to take note of him. It pivoted on Roach’s shoulder, staring at Simon for a couple of seconds before launching itself into the air, landing on Simon next.
He flinched a little, not expecting the sudden contact even if the bird weighed next to nothing. The little feet dug into the fabric of his shirt to find a hold, but Simon barely even felt it. After regarding him for a moment longer, it spoke up in its high-pitched, squeaky voice, asking, “What doing?”
“That’s Hamlet,” Soap supplied readily with a knowing smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief. “He’d like to know how you’re doing.”
“Or what you’re doing.”
“Really, it can mean anything. It’s kinda his go-to phrase,” Gaz finished with a shrug.
Simon took the information in, glancing down at the little creature resting on his shoulder. “What doing?” Hamlet went again, his body bobbing up and down.
“I’m fine,” Simon told the bird, which outright squealed before yelling “Kisses! Kisses!”, pressing its beak to Simon’s shoulder twice.
Roach watched them and Simon could see the smile forming under his friend’s mask, eyes glinting in a way that seemed to say “See? I told you it would be great.” Whether that was truly the case had yet to be determined, in Simon’s opinion.
“So,” Roach went on, accepting that Simon would not contribute to this conversation much further. “What have you guys been up to today?”
“Until now, we’ve been dying in the coffee rush hour. Then Soap began to dig his own grave.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Soap was quick to intervene, pulling his lip up into a scowl.
“Tell that to Laswell.”
“Tell me what?” came a call through an open door behind the counter. It sounded like a woman. Probably some kind of manager if they referred to her by last name.
“Nothing!” Soap assured, but his voice was just a smidge to high to be completely natural. At his side, Gaz tried (and failed) to hide a snort.
“Soap, whatever you broke, it’d better be fixed by the end of your shift.” With that, the matter seemed to be finished, Soap rolling his eyes as Gaz snickered, pressing his hand to his mouth to conceal it.
Roach approached the counter and Simon followed to a certain degree, staying a few steps behind though. This little area between front door and counter was refreshingly void of people and Simon would use that to his advantage as long as possible.
“What did you do?”
“Why does everyone always assume I did something? What happened to innocent until proven guilty? Ever heard of that?”
“He taught Hamlet how to swear.”
“On accident!” Soap hissed, crossing his arms over his chest. Gaz merely shook his head.
Watching the trio like this, Simon couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water. The three men seemed to know each other remarkably well, teasing and nagging like there was no tomorrow. Why in the world had Roach insisted on taking him here? To all these people he didn’t know, that probably didn’t even want him around.
Even a blind fool would see that Simon didn’t belong.
One hour, he told himself. One hour and he would have peace for the next two weeks.
“Accident or not, the damage is done. And we all know Laswell won’t take kindly to you corrupting her sweet little angel,” Gaz purred, nudging Soap who swatted his arm away.
“How bad is it anyways?”
As if prompted, Hamlet perked up, almost hitting Simon’s face as he flapped his wings and called “Fuck you!” with such joy even Simon had to stare at him with wide eyes. In an instant, Gaz was laughing hysterically, having to prop himself up on Soap while Roach snorted, shoulders shaking slightly.
“You’re dead,” Roach confirmed with his hands while Gaz tried to catch his breath. Meanwhile, Soap let out a nearly theatrical groan, slumping against the counter as he slowly, and woefully, slid to the ground.
“You guys better mourn me.”
“Anyways,” Gaz said once he managed to sober up, “while that moron comes to terms with his mortality, can I get you guys anything?”
Roach looked over at Simon, who felt himself tense under Gaz’s attention. His thumb returned to his ring. Simon had skimmed over the menu earlier, yet there had been far too many options to memorize them in one go. Reading through them again now would take far too much time, he knew. So, Simon decided to take a shot in the dark.
“An…Early Grey with milk.” Gaz nodded and Simon tried to hide the breath he let out. Roach simply signed, “The usual.”
“Coming right up.” Roach gave a thumbs up, waving at Simon to follow along.
Roach didn’t even inspect the empty tables for a full second before heading straight to one in the corner of the room, right by the bookshelves. Those unlucky few who hadn’t scored tables outside had opted to sit near the huge windows covering the storefront, leaving this area of the café pleasingly empty. Roach sat down first, his back to the windows and Simon followed, placing his palms flat on the table to stop his hands from fidgeting too much.
“So,” Roach began once Simon had settled, “what do you think?”