John Reese (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stellen) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2015-02-12 10:01 am
stellen) wrote in maskormenacelogs2015-02-12 10:01 am
[OPEN] I just met you, and you're in training
WHO: John Reese & whoever stops by to torture him
WHERE: "The Grind", a coffee shop near the porter in De Chima
WHEN: From 6am-3pm today
WHAT: John's first day on the job as the worst barista in history
WARNINGS: Terrible customer service & possible violence
Conveniently located at the edge of downtown near the military base and porter, The Grind is your typical De Chima coffee shop and one of five shops sprinkled across the city. It caters to busy, important people going about their busy, important lives and offers quick service and a wide variety of hot drinks and gourmet pastries.
The atmosphere is young and cautiously trendy. Popular, but not overplayed songs on a carefully curated playlist create a mellow yet funky mood. It invites people to bring their computers and pretend to work, gossip with friends over a pretentious cup or simply pay too much for a croissant and be on their way.
The staff are bright, youthful and used to dealing with the steady flow of students, doctors and lawyers that make up the neighbourhood. They memorize your overly complicated drinks, do their best to pretend they care about your day and might even know you by name- they'll ask for it if they don't. Because you're a customer, not a number.
At least, most of the staff.
There's one barista that just doesn't seem to fit in. It could be that he's twenty-five years older and a foot taller than the girl at the cash register, or maybe just because he sucks at his job. He wears a bright gold tag that says 'TRAINING' right over the one that says 'John' with a drawn-on smiley face.
He screws up every drink. He wipes down the tables half-assedly and sweeps without even looking at the floor. He barely fits behind the counter and he keeps hitting his head on hanging light fixtures and bumping into people. He'll write your name down wrong, or replace it with 'glasses' or 'woman with baby'. When he says "Have a nice day" he does it with a frayed, empty sort of smile that might make you reconsider showing your face this side of town ever again.
He's too big, too old and too haggard to be doing what he's doing and he hates every minute of it, but for one reason or another he's still there- and he's your barista.
WHERE: "The Grind", a coffee shop near the porter in De Chima
WHEN: From 6am-3pm today
WHAT: John's first day on the job as the worst barista in history
WARNINGS: Terrible customer service & possible violence
Conveniently located at the edge of downtown near the military base and porter, The Grind is your typical De Chima coffee shop and one of five shops sprinkled across the city. It caters to busy, important people going about their busy, important lives and offers quick service and a wide variety of hot drinks and gourmet pastries.
The atmosphere is young and cautiously trendy. Popular, but not overplayed songs on a carefully curated playlist create a mellow yet funky mood. It invites people to bring their computers and pretend to work, gossip with friends over a pretentious cup or simply pay too much for a croissant and be on their way.
The staff are bright, youthful and used to dealing with the steady flow of students, doctors and lawyers that make up the neighbourhood. They memorize your overly complicated drinks, do their best to pretend they care about your day and might even know you by name- they'll ask for it if they don't. Because you're a customer, not a number.
At least, most of the staff.
There's one barista that just doesn't seem to fit in. It could be that he's twenty-five years older and a foot taller than the girl at the cash register, or maybe just because he sucks at his job. He wears a bright gold tag that says 'TRAINING' right over the one that says 'John' with a drawn-on smiley face.
He screws up every drink. He wipes down the tables half-assedly and sweeps without even looking at the floor. He barely fits behind the counter and he keeps hitting his head on hanging light fixtures and bumping into people. He'll write your name down wrong, or replace it with 'glasses' or 'woman with baby'. When he says "Have a nice day" he does it with a frayed, empty sort of smile that might make you reconsider showing your face this side of town ever again.
He's too big, too old and too haggard to be doing what he's doing and he hates every minute of it, but for one reason or another he's still there- and he's your barista.
employee of the month amirite
He vaguely recognizes her. If she told him her name, he doesn't remember it or what she ordered. He stares at her for a moment, like she might realize John wasn't the one she needed to talk to, until it's obvious that he is and there's no getting out of it.
For all his tall, dark and haggard routine- he had a voice like velvet. It only made every inappropriate thing he said that much more disconcerting.]
Sorry, someone puked all over the bathroom- it's out of order.
Some people just can't hold their espresso.
[ Either that, or John had made a drink with milk instead of soy again for the fifth time that morning. Maybe people who were lactose intolerant should learn to drink their coffee black. ]
picture of him on the wall framed by a gold star
She stares at him a full moment, and then answers with a very British, very polite: ]
Lovely.
[ And then she nods like he actually answered her question, and then goes onto what she was actually going to say. ]
I'm afraid the milk in this is a bit burned. [ And then, with a no-offense sort of smile - ] They showed you how to use the steamer, didn't they?
with a big dead-eyed smile
[ Somewhere in the world children were dying of starvation and wars being waged over religion and territory, but this poor girl's milk was a little bit burned.
The look on his face said it all. He drops the mallet onto the counter with a loud clatter and wipes his hands off on the front of his apron, which was already splattered with whipped cream, coffee and something red that could have been blood. ]
And yes, they did show me, but as you can see- I'm in training.
[ He smiles and flicks the shiny, gold badge pinned to his chest like a prisoner's ID with the same sunny enthusiasm as a convict. ]
mothers cover their children's eyes so that they don't need to see it
Yeah, well, you need to get trained a bit better before they let you make drinks on your own.
[ And then she lets out a huffy sort of sigh. ]
Look, it's a rotten job. I'm a waitress myself. But if you keep on like this, you're going to get fired - and fast. And then where will you be?
too late their souls are his
[ John wasn't thrilled with the idea of making drinks either. He could barely remember half of the recipes and didn't know how to use half the machines, and everyone wanted everything so fast.
He had started the day looking to make a solid effort, because all of them had agreed to keep their heads down and fit in in order to look for Shaw and any others before making any attempt to go underground. John was no stranger to going undercover or doing dirty jobs, but working in a cafe made high-risk security and drug deals look like child's play. When someone was giving him a hard time he couldn't just shoot them. It made doing the job a lot more difficult, who had the patience for this?
It was barely past the morning rush and he was already tired, frustrated and overwhelmed. His hands, which could take apart and put back together a gun in seconds, felt big and clumsy and he had felt less stressed after forty-eight hours looking through a scope.
If he hadn't come back from overseas with PTSD he was going to have it after this job.
He held his hand out for her cup, willing to try and fix it, albeit grudgingly. ]
Short hair, latte. Did you want sea-salt mocha peppermint sprinkles on that?
ave satanus etc.
Honestly, it's annoying. He's been at this, what, a day at the most? And she's being absolutely an angel to him. Kitty's put up with some rude customers, and she still keeps her smile. He hasn't even begun to see the worst of it, and he's acting like an actual raincloud forced into human skin. ]
It's Clara, actually.
[ It's Kitty, actually, but she's using this cafe to do a bit of spying; she has a different look than usual, and a different name, different documents, everything. Not that anything remotely interesting has come out of that spying. ]
And yeah. Sea-salt mocha peppermint sprinkles would be brilliant, thanks.
[ She hands the cup back to him, arching her eyebrows ironically. But then curiosity wins out: she takes a moment to look him over, up and down. He's awfully old, and clearly has never worked in customer service. Forced into this work after being knocked out of some other, better job, no doubt. He doesn't look all that posh, though. He carries himself with enough arrogance that he might be president of the whole world, but...His hands look a bit too rough. Kitty learned when she was young to tell the hands of people who did soft work, because those were the hands of the magicians, and those were dangerous people, people you had to avoid. His work isn't soft.
Interesting. ]
So what did you do before this?
[ The only name she has is "John," but like hell she's going to call him that. She hates it when people think that just because she's got a name on a tag they're on a first-name basis. The least she can do is give him a little dignity. ]
no subject
Just because he was an incompetent barista didn't mean he wasn't extremely competent in other fields, to which a big man with a low voice and steady hands might be more suited.
If Clara knew just how capable John's hands were, she might have thought twice before asking him anything. The less she knew about John Reese, the better.
He sprinkles the top of her drink and smiles at her. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his eyelashes dark and surprisingly long. It was easy to get lost in the blue of John's irises and the timber of his voice, and accept whatever outright lie or half-truth he offered. ]
Independent contracting.
no subject
Focus, Kitty. She stares hard at the espresso machine, admiring how...shiny it is. Very new. Much more expensive than the one at her cafe. ]
That doesn't mean very much, though, does it? That job description. You could be contracted to do anything.
[ She dares to look back at him now. ]
So?
no subject
He's not afraid to look her in the eyes. She was a tough girl, but John had stood toe to toe with his fair share of powerful and intimidating women. His smile tugs into a wry smirk, and he slides her cup across the table. If his callused fingertips brush her hand it's accidental.
She could critique his latte, but she wasn't about to crack his code. The truth was dangerous. ]
Exactly. I like to keep my options open.
You could say I'm a free spirit.
no subject
Oh, that's crap.
[ She'd cross her arms if she didn't have that cup in her hand. As it stands, she just tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes. ]
You just want to seem mysterious, don't you? [ And then, because she feels in her bones that if she doesn't push him she'll just get more of him being all...charming and blue-eyed and high-cheekboned at her: ] Were you in the military?
Sorry for taking so long, it's been a crazy week!
My name is John, as you can see, and I make a crappy latte.
All I want is a tip.
[ He's still smiling, but there's something wolfish about it. There's a glint in his eyes that's a little menacing in combination with the flash of his teeth. ]
Now what makes you say that?
[ He tilts his head, mirroring her movement. His strong hands brace against the counters edge and for a moment she might get the feeling it would be entirely possible for him to push down and leap over the bar in one easy movement.
What he would do after that was left to the imagination. ]
oh my god how DARE you show your face around here
Of course, Clara isn't supposed to be so sharp. And Clara certainly isn't from any other world where there's some war going on. Oh, no. Clara is just a simple girl from this world's version of England - ordinary as anything. So she shrugs, trying to look perfectly simple. ]
One of the people I work with - he was a soldier. He left, though. You sort of remind me of him, that's all. So...Were you?
Sob. I'll just take my silver fox and go home...
A long time ago.
[ John wasn't sure what made him answer honestly. Maybe because the moments he could be were so few and far between. He didn't exactly enjoy lying to everyone about everything, but it was necessary.
He straightens and whether it was slippery slope of telling the truth, or just the movement, his wounded shoulder aches and he rubs at it absently with one hand. The bullet was long gone, but the shot had been taken less than a week ago. The switch from chasing after his missing comrade to scrubbing counters hadn't helped the healing process.
He drops his hand away as soon as he realizes he's doing it, and his smile takes on an extra charge. ]
Were you? This does feel an awful lot like an interrogation.
no i take it back i take it all back
That was a long time ago for her, too, though. ]
Of course not.
[ And then the look she shoots him is a sort of oh really look, a chiding look. People - especially grown men - have always tended to assume that a nicely-dressed young girl can't be anything more than that - something disadvantageous and advantageous in equal measure. Here, she gives him that look just in case he starts to think of feeling wary towards her. ]
What led you to leave, anyway? The military, I mean. My coworker - he was injured.
[ Hazarding a guess. She hadn't missed where his hand had gone; if she had to lay odds at the moment, she'd bet that he'd been touching the wound that drove him out of the military. ]
That's what I thought!
I just wanted to come home.
[ That much was the truth. He had fully intended to settle down. Then 9/11 happened and John had reenlisted, only to be drafted shortly thereafter by the CIA into the SAD for another ten years of his life.
John couldn't help the wistful note that slipped into his voice, but he swallowed after he spoke, as if something had come up he hadn't intended to let out. No matter how much time had passed his painful mistakes never felt farther away than yesterday.
Not unless he was busy, or drinking.
He finally looks away from her to the clock above the bar and rubs his hand over his face. There was a dusting of silver shadow along his jaw, lighter than the gunmetal shade of his close-cropped hair. ]
Well, it's been nice talking to you Clara, but unless you're planning on buying me lunch you'll have to find somebody else to waterboard.
no subject
No, you're just nosy, Kitty. Admit it. ]
Sure. There's a really brilliant kebab place around the corner. They make their baklava with pistachio; it's excellent.
[ She grins her winningest grin at him. ]
no subject
[ He makes a show of pondering for a moment before his eyes flicker back to her, a smirk touching his lips.
He wasn't particularly hungry, but he rarely was, which was half of his excuse for not bringing lunch. The other half was the brutal hangover that had made everything but climbing into his clothes and dragging his ass to the cafe near impossible.
Clara was curious and rewarding her efforts was likely against his best interests, but chatting with the girl had passed the time, and on some level he was eager to get out of this place and talk to someone like a normal human being.
As much as John ever could, anyway. ]
I'll have to see if the American stuff compares.
no subject
Brilliant. I'll get my things together.
[ And she picks up her latte (because like hell she's not going to drink that if she paid for it) and then goes to gather up her book and her tablet. ]
no subject
He's waiting for her by the door when she's ready, arms folded over his chest and one leg crossed over the other. He seemed to have unfolded himself upon leaving the counter, now that he didn't have to worry about hitting his head off low-hanging lamps he could allow himself to be stand at his actual height.
His hair was still a little wet, but his disposition was already sunnier. It wasn't a bad day outside and he was eager to be anywhere but stuck in the cafe. ]
I've got half an hour.
...Slave drivers.
no subject
[ Kitty grins, clearly more amused than horrified. And that just confirms, from her point of view: this isn't someone who's used to the service industry, not someone used to having to take breaks. That makes her think that he was probably telling the truth about being out of the military a long time: they've got to stay disciplined, haven't they? Ask for breaks and all that. She thinks. (She doesn't actually know all that well what goes on in the army.) ]
This place is quick, at least. Follow me.
[ She takes the lead easily, confidently. As she walks, she throws back another question at him: ]
What's your last name?