Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jimmy is late. Again.

Scott has to remind himself that Jimmy being late is not the end of the world, as much as he currently feels like it is . The man is near consistently late, and he should really be factoring that into his mornings and the schedules at this point, when it’s such an inevitability. Whether it be because his alarm failed to go off even though he checked it five times the night before (and on one memorable occasion even sent a screenshot of the alarm to their groupchat, though he had still been late the next day), or because his bus was late and/or cancelled entirely. Or maybe some other disaster has sprung up and halted Jimmy before he can make it to work this morning.

So, Scott is on his own. He is on his own and facing down a long queue of caffeine-addicted customers that are beginning to grumble at the slowness of the line and its progress. Seriously, though, who has the energy to be up this early in the morning? Admittedly, most of his current customers are overtired uni students that probably wouldn't be able to tell caffeinated coffee from decaffeinated coffee at the moment.

He scowls down at the card machine, punching the numbers into the keypad a little more forcefully than necessary ( seriously , would it kill his boss to upgrade their system so the card machines are actually, you know, connected to the tills ) before thrusting said machine out towards the next student. They stare at it for several long moments, card gripped in their hand.

They look up, blinking tiredly. “Do you do a student discount?”

“No.” He smiles as pleasantly as he can, mustering the last of his patience and resisting the urge to point at the sign that explicitly states that they do not, in fact, do student discounts. “Sorry about that.” He’s not sorry, not at all, but it seems to appease the student enough because they give in and tap their card to the machine, holding it there until it gives a happy little beep and spits a receipt out.

“Thank you, your drink will be ready in a few minutes.” He smiles at the student until their back is turned, allowing it to drop as soon as they're no longer looking at him, glued to their phone screen instead. He turns to the next customer with a barely restrained sigh, smiling and opening his mouth to begin the spiel that he’s forced to give out to each customer that graces this counter.

“I'm here!” The door to the storage room that also doubles as their break room slams open, bouncing off of the wall behind it and almost slamming straight back into Jimmy’s face. It startles several of the people in the queue out of their half-dozing states, and they blink at him curiously. He watches the canary as well as he struggles to tie his apron properly, hands fumbling over the knots in his speed. “I'm here,” Jimmy repeats, as though they hadn't heard him the first time. “You are not going to believe what happened this morning.”

“The same thing that happens every time you have a morning shift?” He steps back and lets Jimmy slip in front of him and take over the till. Scott sends a small prayer up to whatever deity was watching over him at that moment, feeling his shoulders slump as he gets the opportunity to turn away from the customers and towards the backlog of drinks he hasn't managed to make yet.

“Uhm, no, actually,” Jimmy’s head is turned slightly towards him, but not enough that Scott can actually see his face. “My door - thank you very much, here’s your receipt - locked on me.” Scott allows those words to percolate through his brain, wondering at the same time how Jimmy can seemingly interact with people so effortlessly- go figure, the omen of misfortune is the preferred member of staff at this café.

The milk screams at him as he steams it and he has to try not to flinch back from the sound. The coffee machine rumbles threateningly beside him, letting out a grating wheeze- Scott prays that this moment is not when its last legs collapse beneath it, because that’s really the last thing they need right now.

“Your door locked on you.” He repeats. “Isn't that what it’s supposed to do?”

“Not when I'm trying to get out .” Jimmy squawks, turning away from the customer to look at him. Scott frowns at him until he turns back around, muttering something beneath his breath.

“Did you try using a key?” He asks, helpfully. “I've heard those are rather good at unlocking doors.” He laughs to himself at Jimmy’s grumble of frustration, keeping his back turned as he leans over to grab a few take-away cups.

“ Did you try using a key ,” Jimmy mimics, in what is possibly one of the worst impressions of a Scottish accent he’s heard so far this month. “Of course I tried using a key- it didn't work !” The card machine buzzes as it spits out another receipt, and Jimmy wordlessly hands the order over to him.

“And yet you're here.” He sets the group of drinks on the counter, calling out for the customer. They perk up, head swivelling around as though someone else might dart forward and take drinks under the exact same name. Only when they realise that he’s actually calling them do they begin to meander their way over. They take the drinks without even a single thanks, the bell above the door ringing as they leave.

“Uh, yeah,” Jimmy turns to face him, leaning back against the counter- and Scott’s surprised to see the lack of a queue, people either sitting down at tables or perching on stools as they wait for their drinks. “Course I'm here. Not about to abandon you to the morning rush, am I?” Jimmy’s face goes a little pink, and his wings ruffle behind him. Scott grins at that, stepping back towards the coffee machine.

“How did you get out of your apartment, Jimmy?” He nudges an elbow against Jimmy’s side as he passes, watches as he gets even pinker with embarrassment. Jimmy avoids his eyes, muttering something beneath his breath.

“What was that?” He asks, cupping a hand behind a fin, leaning slightly closer. Jimmy looks almost as embarrassed as he did after the Sheriff Incident. “I couldn't quite hear you.”

“I said ,” Jimmy grits out. “That I had to climb out of the window.”

“You live on the fifth floor.”

“I know that Scott , thank you for pointing it out.” Jimmy turns back around, realises there are still no customers to serve, and turns back again, crossing his arms. “Like I said, not about to abandon you for a morning shift.”

“You're too sweet,” he nudges his hip against Jimmy’s as he passes, two more drinks securely held in his hands. He ignores the small twinge in his leg as he does so, calling out for both customers. Only one of them thanks him as he slides the drinks across the counter and towards them. “Especially as you left your keys behind.”

“I- what? I didn't leave my keys behind.”

“Well they're not in your pockets.”

“I- Scott !” He grins to himself at Jimmy’s protests, “You need to stop doing that, you're going to get in trouble one day for stealing from the wrong person.”

“Haven't been caught since I was nine, Jimmy dear.” He wipes the steam wand down quickly, cleaning the last traces of milk froth from it before turning back to face Jimmy. The last few students that had invaded the café have vanished, taking their drinks with them. “And it’s hardly harming anyone.”

“I think the people you pickpocket might have something to say about that.” Jimmy says.

“Only if you snitch on me, and you're far too nice to do that.”

“Nice enough that you’ll switch me and Pearl for tomorrow morning?”

“Nope!” He grins at Jimmy, ignores the dramatic groan the canary lets out, slumping back onto the counter. He’s going to get feathers in the till again. “I'm not doing a stock check with Pearl.”

Jimmy continues groaning. “Worth a shot.”

“Not really.”

*

“I want you to know that I hate everything about this.”

Scott hums into his drink, sipping at it before throwing the whole thing back like it’s a shot. The bitter taste is enough to wake him up at least a little more. “You're here on time, at least.”

Jimmy’s staring at him when he looks up, apron held in his hands as he squints. Scott stares back at him. “How much espresso was in that?” He asks. Scott doesn't actually know, he measured it more with his heart than his eyes.

“I don't need to provide an answer to that.”

“This- Scott, I'm not interrogating you. I'm checking I don't have to call an ambulance in the next five minutes for whatever heart attack you've probably given yourself.”

“On the floor.” He points, “I'm going to read something out and you're going to tell me if we have it.”

“I hate this.” Jimmy peers under the counter anyway, staring into the small space as though it’s going to bite him. Scott nudges at him with his foot, pushing him a little further in.

“Get on with hating it then, do we have any earl grey?”

“Three boxes.” There’s the sound of some shuffling, and then a muffled thump. Jimmy groans as he marks the earl grey off the list.

“Mint?” 

“One box.”

“Hm,” he marks it off. “Mint’s been quite popular these past few weeks.”

“Then order some more.” Jimmy sits back on his heels, head just reaching the counter. His hair is covered in dust and Scott has to bite his lip to not laugh. “I don't see why we need to store all the teas here, why can't we store it with everything else?”

“Because I like watching you suffer. Green tea?” 

Jimmy grumbles, but ducks back under the counter again, shuffling about. The bell rings as someone enters the shop, and he glances up for a moment, sees who it is, and looks back down at his list.

“Four boxes.” He marks it off. “Is Pix here?”

“Yes,” Pixl leans over the counter, something that no other customers would actually get away with, but they're technically not open yet so Scott doesn't shove him back yet. “Having fun down there Jim?”

“You know it.” Pixl grins at Jimmy’s deadpan response, sliding back across the counter. There’s another muffled thump, and Jimmy swears this time, shuffling backwards until he’s clear of the counter, straightening up. “Good morning.”

“Morning, you look like you've walked out of one of the dig sites.”

“Why-” Jimmy runs his hand through his hair. “Scott! You told me you dusted under there!” He rubs his hands through his hair a little more vigorously, both Scott and Pixl watching him with a grin. “Why didn't you tell me !”

“It’s much more funny to watch you find out yourself.” Scott replies, “Besides, you're not five anymore, you can do things yourself now.”

“Well aren't you hilarious.” Jimmy grumbles, running his hand through his hair again. He’s still rather dusty, but he hasn't noticed it yet and Scott isn't about to tell him. He holds a finger to his lips, swearing Pixl to silence as well. “I'm not doing another stock check with you ever again Scott Smajor, you can fire me, I don't care.”

“ Scott Smajor ,” Pixl parrots, still grinning. “Someone’s in trouble .”

“That’s not even my name ,” he scoffs.

“Uh-huh, and where’s the birth certificate to prove it?” Jimmy asks. “Pics or it didn't happen.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Your hair is ridiculous.”

Scott pauses, halfway through prepping the coffee machine. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.” He says, listening to the silence that follows afterwards. “Usual?”

“Yes, thank you.” He can hear Pixl shuffling behind him. The sound of something heavy being dumped on the bar counter reaches his ears. No doubt Pix’s setting up his stall for the day- next thing he knows it Cleo is going to show up as well and then he won't get a single moment of peace.

*

Cleo shows up about twenty minutes into the lunch rush.

He ignores her in favour of making sure he doesn't burn his hands on the small oven or the hot food that his boss insists they serve, despite it being the most inconvenient thing to ever happen to Scott. The beeper is annoying and it doesn't shut up until he manages to grab a moment to turn it off- which is never because it’s the lunch rush and they're constantly busy.

Jimmy is banned from touching the oven. The last time he did so he managed to get several third degree burns and Scott had to take him to A&E after shutting the café for the afternoon. Him and Tango managed to have a rather pleasant conversation in the waiting room, at least.

“You look like you're having fun.”

“Thanks, Cleo.” He cleans the steam wands off quickly, readjusting them before he turns and snatches the milk jugs off the counter, before Jimmy can even think about trying to steam the milk. The milk screams at him, though he does his best to grit his teeth and bear the sound until the milk is finished. “Just a few more minutes and the worst should be over.”

“No murder victims yet?”

“Not yet,” he hands the coffee over to a customer with a smile, ignoring the worried look they shoot him at Cleo’s words. “Though you're beginning to look like a rather tempting target.”

“Oh, please. I welcome your attempts. How do you kill something that’s already dead?”

“Spite.”

Pixl laughs. “He’s got you there.”

The next few customers blur together, with Jimmy handing him tickets almost every few seconds. His leg aches something awful and he is seriously looking forward to his break, even if Cleo’s going to make him drink something other than coffee now that she’s here. And she doesn't even do it in a nice way, just invites herself round the counter and pours his coffee down the sink.

He leans against the counter when they have a small lull, resisting the urge to bash his head against said counter until everything goes nice and quiet and dark.

“Has Pearl been by already today?” Cleo asks.

“Yeah, she dropped off a few tubs of brownies and a cheesecake.” He gestures towards where he knows the cake display is, where Cleo is no doubt already looking. “Fancy anything?”

“Not really, just wondered if she was working today.”

“Not today. She had something on last night, just said she wouldn't be in today.”

Cleo hums. “Full moon last night.”

“Yup.” He glances up at the clock, wondering if he can go on break early. He then remembers that he is the manager and can do whatever he wants.

“Strange coincidence.”

“Please stop speculating about Pearl while she’s not here.” He drags himself around the counter, sitting down beside Pixl, careful to not lean on any of his notes or knock any of his pens from the counter. “You’ll summon her.”

“She’s not a demon, Scott.” Jimmy joins in, leaning over the counter to peer at him. “She won't appear if you say her name three times.”

“Don't you have some tables you should be cleaning?” He says, in lieu of a response. His leg continues to ache, even though he’s sat down.

“You're the least fun person I've ever met.” Jimmy complains.

“Good. Get on with it.”

*

Jimmy had an afternoon lecture, something which one of his classmates - fWhip - reminded him about twenty minutes before it was due to begin.

Scott isn't actually sure how Jimmy has survived this long- wouldn't believe that he had managed to exist before now if he hadn't met him in college. One of the many mysteries of the world is Jimmy’s continued survival. Scientists would study him if they had the chance.

Jimmy’s absence means that Scott is being forced to finish the stock check beneath the counter, ignoring Cleo’s comments about the music currently playing- he doesn't exactly get to choose the music. Jimmy does all of that, and the poor man really needs someone to introduce him to a band that still has all of its members alive.

He winces at a particularly bad note, almost bad enough to cover the chiming of the bell. He sticks his head back above the counter, narrowly missing bumping his head on the underneath of it.

It’s someone he’s never seen before, not one of their regulars, peering about the place with curiosity clear on his face.

He hauls himself to his feet, ignoring the protesting of his leg and knee as he does so. The customer is…annoyingly handsome, in a rather charming way. His eyes glitter with mirth as he approaches, hair flopping over his face despite the headband he wears presumably to avoid exactly that.

“You have a little something in your hair, buddy.” And as with all men, Scott is disappointed as soon as he opens his mouth. Cleo turns away, covering their mouth as they attempt to smother a laugh. He resists the urge to glare at her.

“Thanks.” He brushes a hand through his hair, careful not to pull it from where it’s coiled at the back of his head. “What can I get you?”

“I don't know,” the man leans against the counter, “any recommendations?”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” the man pulls a face. “Not a big tea fan.”

“No one ever is.” Pixl mutters, pulling his mug of tea closer to himself. Pixl is the only man Scott respects right now.

“Our latte’s the most popular coffee, do you want that?”

“Sounds lovely,” the man’s eyes meet his own. “Say, you have some rather unique eyes, don't you?”

“You could say that, why, want a closer look?” He leans a little further over the counter, smiling slightly as he watches the man’s eyes widen, no doubt not expecting him to respond- really, if he wants things to go his way he needs to get better at flirting. “Your eyes are rather nice too.” He says, “if I was able to see them.”

The man rests his arms on the counter, wallet clutched loosely in one hand. It’s already open, card halfway pulled free. He looks back up, continuing to smile at the man.

“Shall I make you that latte?” He pulls back, watching as the man takes a moment to regather himself, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, yes please. Thank you.” The man pays, almost appearing to be in a trance with the way he’s blinking, looking around as though he’s not sure of where he is. Scott turns, smirking to himself as he makes the coffee, handing it over in a take-away cup a few moments later.

“Thanks.” The man takes the coffee absently, turning around and walking from the shop, bell ringing merrily in his wake.

“Scott,” Pixl says.

“Pixl,” he mocks. “C’mon, who flirts with a barista?”

“That guy, apparently.” Cleo says, still watching him walk away. “He looked like you blindfolded him and spun him a hundred times before setting him loose again.”

“If he wanted to keep his wallet safe, he shouldn't have gotten distracted by my eyes.” He sticks the five-pound note into the tip jar. “Besides, it’s not like he’ll be back.”

Chapter Text

The man came back.

The man walks into the café the next morning, smiling cheerily as the bell twinkles merrily above the door, announcing his arrival. He is far too happy for a man whose stolen fiver is still sitting in the tip jar.

Cleo is alone this morning. Pixl’s in some early morning class that he complains about every time he has to go to it. Scott isn't sure why he complains, because he distinctly remembers Pixl choosing that class specifically because it was early in the morning so it would ‘get it out of the way’ for the rest of the day. He’s actually pretty sure Pixl has done this every single year he’s been at university.

Cleo being alone does not mean she is any less of a menace to him. Even worse is that Pearl is here today rather than Jimmy, meaning they're attempting to make his life more of a living hell than it usually is.

“Good morning,” Pearl chirps, leaning against the counter, “what can we get started for you?”

Cleo is staring at him from the bar counter, their eyes attempting to bore into the side of his head with the intensity of their stare. He does his best to ignore them- looking in their direction will only encourage them in the future and he does not want this to turn into a repeating incident.

“Just a latte, please.” The man holds just his card in his hand this time, wallet tucked securely away somewhere else. Pity, Scott had almost been tempted to see if he could steal something else from him.

“That’ll be three-fifty.” The man taps his card against the machine, all three of them waiting in silence before it beeps.

Scott works on the coffee slowly, dragging himself through the familiar motions. He could do this in his sleep at this point, really- and probably a good thing he can because he feels as though he’s going to keel over any moment now. The morning has been slow too, meaning there’s been no adrenaline kick to wake him up properly and he’s left feeling like he’s swimming through molasses to get anything done.

He sets the coffee in front of the man, who has chosen to wait beside the counter rather than sit somewhere else, resting his hip against the counter. He doesn't look at Scott as he sets the drink down, eyes instead focused on Pearl, squinted slightly, as though he’s trying to think of something.

Scott clears his throat, and the man jumps, hand pressed to his chest. “Geez, man, give a guy a little warning, huh?”

“Your drink is ready.” He gestures towards the drink, nudging it a little closer to the man.

“Ah, yeah, thanks.” The man still seems a little distracted. He’s not looking at Scott and when he turns to find where the man’s gaze has wandered, he finds it fixed on Pearl again, watching her as she cleans the coffee machine.

“Hey,” he drags the man’s attention back to him. “Prefer it if you didn't stare at my co-workers like that, hm?” Pearl’s looking now, one hand still resting against the coffee machine as she watches them. Cleo’s watching too, though it seems less so in concern and more because she wants to be able to recount this to Pixl word-for-word.

“Oh, sorry,” the man laughs, finally picking his drink up. “I just, do I know you from somewhere?” He directs the last bit at Pearl, voice lilting up a little at the end. “I just feel like I've seen you before, but I can't put my finger on it.”

“Really? Can't say I recognise you.” Cleo snickers, glancing between Pearl and their mystery man.

“No, no, definitely someone I've met before. Not many people with an Australian accent out here- where did you go to school?”

Pearl pulls a face at his question. “Don't think you should be asking a random barista that.”

“Ugh, yeah, sorry.” The man winces, like, a full-body wince that Scott has only seen from Jimmy before. “That’s kinda weird, lemme rephrase that: did you go to the Evolutionary Belief Primary?”

“Evo?” Pearl cocks her head to the side, “Didn't think anyone still knew about that.”

Scott has heard many stories about Pearl’s primary school- both Jimmy and Pearl’s primary school. Mainly stories about what a hellhole it was, and how odd a lot of the teachers had been. Last time it got mentioned was when Pearl and Jimmy were talking about it being shut down, though neither of them could figure out what it was for, only that it managed to get into the national news.

“You do know it!” Scott is simply glad that there are no other patrons currently in the café because this man is going to scare everyone away at this rate- seriously, has he ever interacted with people before? “Man, I knew I wasn't going mad- I went there too, knew I recognised you.”

“Uh-huh,” Scott nods along. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

“I- yeah, I guess?” The man looks at him as though he’s only just remembered he’s here. He’s tempted to give him a little wave before sending him on his way, but resists. “Oh my god!” Scott winces away from him, fins flattening to the sides of his head at the man’s outburst. “You were the girl that climbed the trees to read her books!”

“That was me.” Pearl looks at him from the corner of her eye before she looks back at the man. “Weren't you the kid that always snitched on me when I did it?”

The man laughs, leaning back on the counter and setting his drink down. He looks a little red. “Yeah, uh, that was me. It was Pearl, right?”

“Yep!” Pearl rocks back and forth on her feet a little. “Don't remember your name, though.”

“Martyn,” the man, Martyn apparently, grins. His drink is going cold, which is his problem rather than Scott’s. He hopes he has to drink cold coffee. Maybe he’ll stick around and let Scott witness him drinking the cold coffee. That would make everything happening right now worth it. “I'm pretty sure you threw a book at me once.”

“Oh, yeah!” Pearl giggles, making her way over to the counter, nudging her way in beside him. He shuffles to the side, making room for her. He leans a little more of his weight on the counter, easing the weight from his leg- the cold weather certainly isn't helping, and neither is the recent insomnia. “It was a hardback, right? I think some of your blood is still on it.”

“That’s weird, Pearl.”

“Aw, Scott, I've seen your apartment. You have some freaky stuff in there.”

“A mannequin is not freaky.” His mannequin is perfectly respectable, even if she hasn't been used in several years. He doesn't have the heart to throw her away- not after they've been through so much together. “You're just weird about her.”

“She’s stitched together.”

“We’ve had a few accidents over the years,” he shrugs, “she’s old, and I didn't want to buy a new one. She still works perfectly fine.”

“No, Scott, I'm on Pearl’s side with this one.” Cleo points at him with her spoon, nodding sagely. “She looks like Frankenstein’s monster.”

“She’s hardly going to come alive.” He sighs, pushing back off of the counter. “You're just overly dramatic about her.” As no one else seems inclined to do any work around here he grabs the anti-bac from beneath the counter, peering around for a cloth before he manages to find one trailing halfway out of a drawer.

“I swear she moved, once.” Pearl whispers to Martyn, leaning against the counter. He can't tell if she meant for him to hear her or not, so chooses to ignore her either way. The mannequin doesn't even have arms, so he’s not sure how Pearl saw her move .

“So, you a fashion student?” Martyn says, and it takes Scott several moments to realise he’s being spoken to.

“Not anymore.” He continues cleaning the table in the furthest corner- they always manage to forget about it during their rush hours, so he may as well clean it now rather than leave it to gather dust. The leather of his gloves creaks as he grips the cloth a little tighter, swiping it back and forth a few more times. It does nothing but make the table shine a little more- it hadn't even been truly dusty, but something about the man - Martyn - makes Scott nervous.

Silence echoes in the shop for several long moments after that and he continues to clean the tables. He doesn't want to turn around and find all three of them looking at him- he’s glad, now, that this man didn't show up while they were busy. Or maybe he should have hoped that the man did show up when they were busy? He probably wouldn't have stuck around for a chat then, and Scott can't exactly kick him out when he’s done nothing wrong, he’s not even asked about the five-pound note he’s definitely realised is missing by now.

“Hey, Martyn,” Pearl breaks the silence. “Weren't you friends with Jimmy?” It’s a very obvious way to break the awkward silence that had settled over them, but it works anyway, Martyn perking up again as Pearl begins to regale him with the story of the Sheriff Incident.

*

“ Pearl ,” Jimmy stares at Pearl, aghast. Tango snickers beside him. “No, please, tell me you didn't.”

“He asked .”

“No he didn't,” Scott brushes past Pearl, on his way to deliver two hot chocolates to the table beside the door. “You offered the information freely.”

“Scott!” Pearl protests. “He didn't need to know that!”

“You didn't need to tell him about that ,” Jimmy slumps over the counter, head pillowed in his hands. Tango pats him on the shoulder.

“Hey, it’s not the worst thing she could have told him,” Tango attempts.

“Oh yeah?” Scott steps back behind the counter, casting Jimmy’s slumped over form an amused look. His voice is slightly muffled. “What else could she have told him? What could have been worse than that?”

“She could have told him about the fallout from that incident, you know, with the toys-”

“Don't.”

Scott wonders, briefly, whether to tell Jimmy that the man they are currently talking about is still here, sitting in the back corner with a thick textbook and a vaguely stressed look on his face. He’s not sure what he’s studying, but he’s heard enough about the upcoming exams that everyone has that he can probably make a guess to why he’s stressed.

The textbook looks thick enough to be a medicine textbook, but the guy also doesn't give off med student vibes. He’s far too cheerful and awake for that- most of their med students ignore whatever medical advice there is on caffeine intake. Scott normally lies to them about how many shots he puts in their drinks (seriously, he’s not looking for a murder charge, alright?) and just hands it over. It’d do med students some good to get some sleep every once in a while.

So, definitely not a med student, even though the textbook looks heavy enough to kill a man.

He takes the ticket Pearl hands to him, eyes still fixed on the man tucked away in the corner of the shop- it’s normally so easy to overlook that table in the back corner, but he’s found his eyes drawn periodically to it throughout today.

“You do know he’s still here, right?” He asks, if only to watch Jimmy’s head shoot up, eyes blown wide.

“Where?” Tango asks, apparently curious to meet Martyn as well. It certainly was interesting to pin the name he’s heard from Jimmy several times over the years to a face. Though he hardly looks like the type to start a club for policing other students.

“Back corner,” he nods over towards the table. “Your drinks will be done in a moment.”

“Fantabulous,” Tango grins, grabbing Jimmy by the shoulders and pulling him up- though he’s less upright and more hunched over to allow Tango to continue holding onto his shoulders. “We’ll go have a chat with him then.”

“Pearl,” he doesn't even turn his head away from the machine, fins twitching at the sudden absence of sound from where Pearl should be. “Don't touch the music.”

“But all you play is musical soundtracks.” Pearl complains. He can hear her feet scuffing over the floor, dragging herself back towards the till. “Don't you get bored?”

“Don't you get bored of trying and failing?”

“I’ll succeed one day.”

He scoffs a laugh. “Maybe when I'm dead.”

Pearl huffs a laugh. “Not far off by the looks of it,” she’s leaning closer a moment later, hair slipping over her shoulder as she forces him to look at her. “How much have you been sleeping recently?”

“Not enough.”

He sets Tango’s drink on a saucer, shuddering at the thought of how much caffeine it contains- he doesn't shy away from strong coffee, but Tango scares him. Jimmy’s hot chocolate is far less stressful to think about for prolonged periods of time.

“That’s not an answer, Scott.” Pearl’s eyes are sad as she looks at him, the freckles on her cheeks glinting beneath the light, like tiny stars. “Is it about…” she trails off, but the silence is more meaningful than any words would be.

He fixes her with a glare, picking the drinks up. “I'm taking these to the lovebirds.”

“That’s not-” Pearl cuts herself off with a sigh as he walks away. He does his best to ignore the guilt he feels, settling heavy in his chest, brushing it off as he sets the drinks down in front of Tango and Jimmy.

They've sat down with Martyn, Tango listening excitedly as Martyn tells him some story or another. Jimmy looks like he wants to melt into the floor. Tango thanks him for the drinks, and he gets a muffled sentence from Jimmy that could be a thank you but could also be him pleading for a swift death.

He’s just glad that Cleo’s not here this afternoon, leaving the bar counter empty. It looks almost lonely without Pixl or Cleo occupying it with their rocks and their notes. But he’s still glad she’s not here, because while Pearl will continue to look at him with sad eyes in the hopes that he might crack (which has never worked in the past and will continue to not work), Cleo would strongarm any answers out of him, regardless of who is listening. And he knows who he is more equipped to deal with on two hours sleep.

He checks the clock, praying for the seconds to start ticking faster.

(He thinks the clock starts going slower, just to spite him.)

Chapter Text

His curtains are closed tightly enough that he cannot see the faint light of the moon. It leaves him in pitch darkness, though that doesn't stop him from glancing around the room, picking out the shapes and huddles of fabric that are dotted around the room. The shadows lurk in the corners, though they do not press closer- do not move forward, content to continue circling him from afar.

He pays the shadows very little attention, long-used to the tricks his eyes and mind play on him. It gets worse with a lack of sleep, and he’d known this was coming, really, with the restlessness over the past few nights; with the lack of sleep comes more aches and pains.

And so he sits.

He sits still, hardly breathing. He can hear the ticking of a clock, echoing through from his partly-open door, sneaking its way in from the kitchen-sitting area just beyond. He’s considered throwing the clock away several different times, weighing it up over and over on nights like this when he cannot sleep and each ticking chime of the clock grates a little further on his nerves.

And yet he’s never managed to part from it, clinging onto it as though it holds any form of sentimentality to him. He doesn't even remember when he got the clock. He’s just…always had it. It hangs above his door, leering down at him each morning as he leaves far too early; watching him as he stumbles back in through his apartment, far too late for someone that works at a café. And in the silence, it ticks.

He hears it in his dreams sometimes, he swears. The slow ticking of a clock, slowly counting down the seconds until he’s dragged back to the world of the living and breathing, pulled from the folds of his dreams.

He finds his breaths matching with the ticking of the clock sometimes, counting along with the seconds that slip between his fingers as he breathes and shakes and attempts to blink away the dark spots that blot his vision out, make it even harder to see in the darkness.

He does not match his breathing to the clock tonight.

He breathes slowly, shallowly, watching as the shadows of the room contort around him into mockeries of people he almost remembers- of faces that are almost forgotten. He doubts the details are ever correct, the darkness reduces the faces to nothing but vague shapes and outlines. He recognises them all the same.

His leg aches something fierce. It is not a sharp, flaring pain- not the kind that is always described as an agony. It simply…aches. His bones ache, with a deep ache that he cannot seem to find any relief from, no matter what he tries.

He digs a knuckle into his knee, focusing on the flare of pain that radiates out from that, distracting from the dull ache that has settled into the rest of his leg- as though an animal is gnawing at the bone from within, scraping and clawing at the marrow. He’s tried to describe the pain several times, but words do not do it justice- he finds himself unable to communicate the pain that accompanies the ache. Because it isn't pain, not really. It’s something that he can overlook, he can walk with it, even if the walk is more of a limp than a confident stride. He can work around it, even if he’s left sitting in the darkness, unable to sleep without the ache yanking him back from the brink of sleep each time he comes even close.

The clock ticks.

He really has considered getting rid of the clock. But he’s not sure how he would feel when he leaves through his shitty door that always jams in the winter because the locks get too cold and refuses to budge in the summer because the wood expands. He’s not certain if he would be able to drag himself back through his door if the clock wasn't there to greet him, to look down upon him like he’s some miserable rat or bird or mouse that the cat has mangled and then dragged in as proof of their kill. He feels half-dead most days already.

The leather of his gloves creaks as he clenches his fist a little tighter, digs into the bone of his knee with a little more force than is probably necessary- than is probably advised. He’s rewarded with a sharp flare of pain that makes him gasp before he can think to smother the sound. Not that he needs to bother. There’s no-one around to hear him, no-one to come see what the noise is about this early in the morning (or is it still late at night?).

He fumbles with his vest, the stupid thing that he got stupidly attached to during his first year at- during his first year, when he stitched it together himself from scraps of fabric from other projects he’d been doing. It had been a dumb idea, something he did out of sheer boredom and then began enjoying. He hasn't been able to bring himself to part with it, not yet and probably not ever, even though it hardly fits with being a barista; even though it makes it so incredibly obvious what he did, why he’s where he is- all the students that drift by probably recognise him. And if they don't, their friend will. Those are the worst customers.

He fumbles with his vest now, hands numb and uncoordinated. The leather of his gloves does nothing to stop the chill seeping in- he quotes that the gloves are for keeping his hands warm, though anyone that asks already knows leather doesn't do that, it’s terribly at holding heat, really-

His fingers close around something, the sudden pressure against the tips of his fingers alerting him that he’s found what he is looking for. No-one ever talks about how much sensation wearing gloves robs you of. He misses it, sometimes.

He draws it free from its pocket, specially sewn into the lining of the vest in a way that had taken him several days to properly finish, to make sure that it laid flat and was invisible to anyone that didn't know of its existence.

It sits neatly in the palm of his hand, gold against white leather. He can't see the details of it, not in the darkness that continues to swim around him, unbroken by the creeping first rays of dawn.

Its chain trails over his fingers, though he cannot feel it, it is far too delicate to feel through his gloves. He brushes a thumb over its face, feels the leather catch on the cracked glass, snagging on the broken and jagged edges before continuing on.

The hands do not tick. He can still hear the clock, hung above his door, ticking merrily away in the darkness. But the hands of this watch do not tick, do not move.

He stares at it for a long moment. Several moments. Perhaps not long at all. He’s not sure. The arms do not move.

He curls a hand around it when the first bit of sunlight peeks into his room. Having it in the sunlight feels wrong, almost. To see the cracks in the glass highlighted by the sun is wrong . The leather of his glove creaks as he curls the hand around it, and he can almost imagine continuing to squeeze, to continue holding it until it splinters apart in his hands and is nothing but a pile of scraps and useless gears.

He tucks it away again.

*

He nods his thanks to the deliveryman without a word. He doesn't seem bothered by Scott’s lack of a response- it’s far too early in the morning for either of them to even begin thinking about talking to each other.

He goes through the list, almost sluggishly, far slower than he would be proud to admit if he was ever asked about it. The screen of his tablet glares back at him, the brightness of it enough to make him squint and curse everything that has led him to this moment.

It means, when Jimmy finally arrives (early, for once. It’s almost enough for Scott to wonder what time he actually set out at today) that he’s still surrounded by most of their stock, glaring at the tablet that is slowly making his headache worse. Gods, he hopes it’s not a migraine. He doesn't need that today. He doesn't need that ever, actually.

“Aren't you cheerful this morning,” Jimmy slips the tablet from his hands then promptly almost drops and smashes it. It would be funny if it hadn't made Scott feel a little bit sick as he thought about explaining how that happened. “Rough night?”

He hums. “Something like that.”

He doesn't miss the way Jimmy looks at him from the corner of his eye. He does, however, ignore it. “If you want to finish up with that-” he waves a hand towards the tablet and Jimmy “-I can start putting all of this away.”

“You stole the words right outta my mouth,” Jimmy grins at him. He’s got sunglasses perched on the top of his head. He wouldn't be surprised if Jimmy’s forgotten he’s even wearing them.

“I know how much you hate doing anything with the stock,” the words scrape his throat a little as he speaks, and he pauses to wince and swallow. Jimmy winces too, though keeps his eyes trained on the tablet as though he’s utterly engrossed in the spreadsheet. “I thought I’d spare you that agony on this fine morning.”

“It’s tipping it down.”

“Like I said, a fine morning.” He grabs the nearest box and, rather than attempting to pick it up and have his leg buckle beneath him, he instead drags it along the floor. The cardboard is quiet as he drags it into the break room, coming to a halt just inside the door.

He stacks the shelves. There’s a stool that he sits on when things are on the lower shelves, stretching his leg out in front of him in an attempt to alleviate the ache that has settled in it. The few paracetamol he’d had that morning dulled the pain for a few hours, but it just means that it’s all that more irritating when the painkiller wears off and he’s left aching again.

Jimmy, and Pearl now, seem to be handling the front easily enough. The buzz of chatter from the front of the café had picked up a few hours ago - though he’s not sure how long he’s been stacking items, just that Jimmy shoved the last few boxes through the door for him a while ago - and the murmur of overlapping conversations makes his heart beat a little slower.

He’s taking far longer than he should be, but it’s fine. It’s familiar work, something that he did far more of when it wasn't him and Jimmy and Pearl, before them, when it was just him and Grian. It had been far more work with just the two of them, but he had enjoyed it, had worked well in Grian’s presence as he adjusted to…everything.

But the work comes to an end eventually and he pulls himself from the stool, tucking it back into its corner and venturing out into the front of the café. It’s probably about time for one of them to take a break, and he feels more than a little guilty about abandoning them for the morning rush.

The cakes display has been refilled and he can see several empty tupperware beneath the counter, out of the way until Pearl finishes her shift and goes home.

“Oh!” Someone perks up at the front bar, blonde hair flashing from the corner of his eye. “You are here, I did wonder if you had the day off, or something.” He turns to face the person, watching as Martyn sits back in his seat again (it’s Cleo’s seat, actually. She always sits in the same one when she’s here, and Pixl sits in the one three seats to her left) and the stool creaks slightly.

“I don't have days off.”

Martyn laughs at that, like it’s a particularly funny joke. “Oh, yeah, sure. No-one else to take your shifts?”

“Not anymore,” he nods when Pearl looks at him and she scurries off to the break room immediately, disappearing as though she’d never been out the front in the first place.

“Oh, shit, did they die?”

He turns to face Martyn again, from where he’d turned his back, just to stare at him. “No. He quit. To focus on his studies more.”

“Oh,” Martyn laughs, though it’s a little more nervous than before. “Man, I thought I’d really put my foot in it there, you know? Because you never know, maybe there was some massive scandal that I wasn't around for and one of the coffee shop workers got brutally murdered.”

“No murders around here.”

“Shame, no mysterious people to be interested in around here either. Other than you of course.”

“I'm hardly mysterious.” He nudges past Jimmy to grab a clean mug, setting it down with a small click.

“Uh, yeah you are.” Martyn scoffs. “Everyone knows who you are even though you're just a barista that works at the nearest coffee shop to the campus. And yet everyone talks about you, or, well, I guess they don't talk about you, but like specifically? In that I can tell that they want to talk about you.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy’s eyeing him, watching him carefully as though something terrible is about to happen.

“Not my fault everyone talks too much for their own good.” He sets Martyn’s drink down in front of him with enough force to make it rattle on its plate, snatching his dirty mug away without another word.

“ I told you not to say anything, ” he hears Jimmy hiss to Martyn, even though Jimmy is obviously doing his very best to keep it quiet and away from his listening ears.

“ How was I meant to know he’d get annoyed with me? I don't know anything about this guy other than the fact that he nicked a fiver and I have no clue how, ” Martyn hisses back, still loud enough for Scott to hear him. He sets the mug and saucer down in the sink, vowing to wash them in a minute.

“ Because I told you he would? ” Jimmy says. “ I told you not to and you were all ‘oh, what’s the worst that could happen’, and did it anyway. ”

“ Alright, whatever, ” he hears Martyn huff and turns around, sensing that the conversation is over. “ You were right, listen to Jimmy, I guess .” Martyn leans back as he walks back from the sink, as though he’s going to have missed the way Martyn was sprawled halfway across the bar to get closer to Jimmy.

He hands a cloth to Jimmy, nudging him away from the till without another word. Jimmy rolls his eyes but grabs the anti-bac anyway, trudging out the front to start clearing up the mess from the lunchtime rush.

He can feel Martyn watching him, every now and then, though whenever he looks the man pretends to be reading his textbook (it’s a biology textbook of some kind, he can see that now it’s closer) and writing notes. He can see his own name scribbled at the top of the page though, so it’s really quite obvious that he’s not actually working.

This is only proving his theory that everyone at Evo Primary was a fucking weirdo.

Chapter Text

The sun is bright and it’s hurting his already aching eyes. It’s enough to give him a headache on the best of days, and today is incredibly far from the best of days. Because the café is busy. Which isn't unusual in and of itself, it’s always busy, people coming and going, sitting or leaving; but it’s extra busy today, and has been extra busy for the last week.

It happens every year, every single time, and yet, without fail, he sometimes forgets that it’s approaching. That the time until the end of the year is ticking down, with the months getting colder and the days getting shorter in the lead up to the winter holidays. And in the lead up to many, many papers needing to be turned in. And the café has free wi-fi, as long as you buy something .

Thus, Scott is stuck making the cheapest drink they have, over and over, and watching people cram themselves into booths with their friends- they're always far too overconfident in being able to fit five people, plus any study materials or laptops or notes or binders they've brought with them, into a tiny booth that he’s watched struggle to take three people. It’s always funny to watch them elbow each other, at least, but he’d rather they weren't here at all.

His leg aches more during these periods as well, with both the cold weather and the increased customers taking a toll on him. He refuses to acknowledge the lack of sleep and how that’s probably affecting it too- he’s survived on less sleep and done better than this.

“Morning sunshine!”

“Martyn,” he turns to face the man. The man that has, unfortunately, become a fixture at the café over the past few weeks. He’s even taken up residence along the front bar when Scott is working. Which is always. Martyn’s greeting catches up with him a moment later, brain lagging several seconds behind their conversation. “Sunshine?”

He hopes Martyn can hear the derision he injects into that single word. He’s been told it’s a talent, his ability to make someone want to shrivel up and die as soon as he spares them a glance and a few choice words. Martyn is, apparently, immune to this as he simply throws his bag onto the front bar with a dangerous sounding clunk and leans across the counter, towards him.

“But you're always so pleased to see me?” Martyn says, grinning, “And you have that winning smile, well, you're practically beaming!”

“Flattery is not a good look on you.” The till beeps as he punches several buttons, Martyn’s order as predictable as ever. “Neither is lying.”

Martyn hums in response, noncommittal, and dips his head a few times as though agreeing. He remains leaned up against the counter, even as Scott steps away to make his drink. He should be thankful that most of their actual customers have been chased off by the sudden influx of sleep-deprived and stressed students, because otherwise he would be forced to tell Martyn to shove off and wait somewhere else.

As it is, he doesn't mind Martyn waiting there. Even if the intensity with which he watches Scott make his drink is more than a little unsettling.

“Worried I might poison it?” He asks, wiping a cloth over the steam wand.

“Oh, certainly,” Martyn’s still grinning when he turns around, which would be irritating if it didn't make him look so attractive. There is a god out there, somewhere, that gets a kick out of making incredibly attractive yet utterly annoying men, he just knows it. And as soon as he finds out which god it is, he’s going to kill them. “Timmy’s told me plenty of stories.”

“Has he?” He sets the drink down in front of Martyn, though he doesn't take it immediately and retreat to his seat. He remains leaned over the counter, forearms braced against it as he grins up at Scott.

“Oh, yes,” Martyn nods sagely, as though he’s imparting some amazing wisdom. “He’s told me that it is an incredibly bad idea to piss off the man making your drinks, no matter how curious you are about him.”

“Oh really?”

Scott hadn't missed the numerous conversations Jimmy has had with Martyn- a lot of them had been through odd facial expressions alone, but he is nothing if not skilled in the art of weird expressions, so he got the main gist of it. Especially when Martyn would sit and sulk at his laptop, not typing, whenever Jimmy won their silent arguments.

“Mhm, mhm,” Martyn continues to nod, reaching forward to curl his hands around his mug. “And I, for once, trust in his judgement.”

“He’ll be thrilled when I tell him.”

Martyn clears his throat, almost awkwardly, eyes dancing away from him. “I, uh, yeah. I am sorry for what I asked about the other day- I'm not saying that I'm not still curious, because lying to you is probably a bad idea,” it is, but Scott won't tell him that. “And I think you're quite nice really, even if your favourite hobby seems to be snapping at rude customers and then stealing a couple pounds from their pockets.”

“I didn't know you were watching me so closely,” Scott can work with this. Oh, he can absolutely work with this. He grins, leaning a little closer. “One would almost think you liked me, Martyn, hm? Focusing on me rather than your rather important essay that you need to have finished by the end of this week.”

“It’s drafted, it’s fine,” Martyn waves it off, though Scott doesn't miss the momentary panic that crosses his face at the mention of his essay. “Besides, I was more than a little worried about you actually poisoning me, gods know what you actually have under that counter- Timmy says it’s a bunch of tea, but I trust him as far as I can throw him sometimes.”

“I’d better make you a new drink, then.” Scott sighs, going to pull the coffee away from Martyn.

“I- huh?” Martyn jerks his hands back from the mug as though he’s been scalded, eyes wide and lips slightly parted as he looks between Scott and his mug then back again. “What do you mean?” He lowers his voice to a hiss, leaning closer, as though someone might overhear.

Scott is almost disappointed that Cleo isn't here today, but they’d cited something about not being able to focus with the amount of chattering in the café currently, and Pix had agreed with her. Meaning he was being abandoned for the foreseeable future.

“Well, I was going to just let you drink that, but then you apologised and I’ll feel bad if you start frothing at the mouth now.” He frowns at Martyn, then grins as he notices the man’s eyes drop to his lips, linger for a little too long to be just friendly, then look back up to his eyes.

“You actually poisoned it ?” Oh, man, now he wishes he’d recorded this. Just so he could replay how Martyn’s voice squeaked.

“Of course not,” he scoffs, pushing the mug back towards Martyn. “That’d be a quick way to lose my job.”

“And stealing from customers isn't?”

“Not if they don't catch me,” Martyn seems more than a little reluctant to take the coffee now, eyeing it warily as though it might jump out of the mug and bite him. “Besides, only customers that are never going to come back leave with their pockets a little lighter.”

“There’s something wrong with you,” Martyn says, but he has a teasing glint in his eyes as he finally takes the mug and retreats to his seat.

*

“G’morning.”

“Hey G,” he looks up, takes in his friend’s appearance. “Rough night?”

“Rough week .” Grian doesn't even bother to order anything- Scott knows his order off by heart by now and can just ring him up before he leaves. Technically not something he’s meant to do, but Grian also knows that Scott will hunt him for sport if he leaves without paying. “Do you know how terrible I feel right now?”

“I can probably guess.” Scott is trying his very best not to judge, but Grian is wearing his sweater inside out and back to front, and it also looks like it hasn't been taken off in several days, rumpled and with a small stain on the front. “You look like you just rolled out of a bin.”

“Thanks.” Grian snorts, head still resting on the front bar. “You really know how to make someone feel special.”

“I have something that might help in feeling better,” he hands Grian his drink in a takeaway cup. He’s seen how Grian, and most of his friends, get around this time of year and there are several regulars he will not give their mugs to, out of fear of breaking them and having to explain the damages to his boss.

“You're the most wonderful person I know,” Grian croaks out, absolutely putting it on for show now.

“I’ll remind you of that next time you complain about me.”

“Go ahead,” Grian sips at the still burning-hot drink, grimaces, and then takes another mouthful. “You won't remember it either.”

Scott works in silence for a few moments, wiping down the counter, stacking the boxes of coffee and tea back where they're meant to sit. He then leans against the counter, cloth still clutched in one hand as he looks over at Grian.

“I beat your record.”

“ What ?” Grian squawks, head shooting up. He sounds almost like a bird, which is something Scott’s pretty certain he’s picked up from Jimmy (and the host of other avian friends the man has- seriously, he collects them like cards ) because the man is human as can be. “How?”

“You underestimate how rude students are at this time of year.” He shrugs, wiping at a non-existent speck of dirt on the counter. “And how little they notice before they've had some coffee. And by then it’s already in the tip jar.”

Grian sighs, then laughs a little, murmuring, “The pupil has become the master.”

“I was always better than you anyway.”

Grian’s head shoots up. “No you were not -”

*

“Afternoon, sunshine.”

“You need to stop calling me that.”

“I think it fits you,” Pearl chimes in, from the other side of the counter.

“You don't get an opinion, Pearl.” Scott shoots back. “What can I get for you today? Ready to branch out and try new things?”

“Same as always,” Martyn grins. “Though, I might try one of your brownies, I've heard they're rather nice.”

“Pearl puts whatever she can find in them, so it’s your funeral if it was out of date and she didn't notice.” He rings Martyn up, holding the card machine out to the man.

“Hey!” Pearl pops up beside him, eyes narrowed playfully. “I’ll have you know that you are the only person to have eaten something funny in any of my brownies ever.”

“So it’s special treatment?” He uses the tongs to grab one of the brownies from the top of the stack, sticking it on a plate and sliding it towards Martyn. “I feel honoured.”

“As you should,” Pearl sniffs, attempting to look down her nose at him, which would work better if she was taller than Scott. But alas.

“That’ll be ready for you in a moment,” he tells Martyn. “Feel free to grab a seat.”

Martyn does so without complaint, though Scott notices that he doesn't pull his laptop out, nor does he retrieve his textbook - marine biology, Scott had managed to catch a glimpse at the cover two weeks ago while the man was lugging it around - instead, he simply sits and watches.

It would be unsettling if he wasn't already used to it. And besides, having an attractive man watching him like that? Scott is hardly going to complain. But Martyn’s stare is far more intense today, threatening to burn a hole straight through his head with how hard he’s staring at him. Normally, Scott can ignore it pretty well, put it out of his mind as he makes his drink and then get on with his business easily enough.

Martyn’s still staring when he turns around, watching him with his brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, as though thinking. He doesn't react when Scott looks at him, nor does he react when he gives him a questioning look. His eyes continue to be fixed on that spot of air, not following Scott around as he adds the last touches to his drink.

It’s only when he sets the latte down in front of Martyn that the man seems to startle free from his reverie, blinking several times. He then looks down at the coffee, and back up at Scott, as though he’s unsure how he got here.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“You're not sorry at all,” Martyn laughs into his drink, already raising it to his mouth to take a sip. If Scott were a nicer person, he would remind him that it’s hot, but he’s not, so he watches him burn his mouth instead. Martyn coughs and then swallows it, taking another sip, as though Scott didn't notice.

Pearl is washing the dirty dishes in the sink, so Scott is on the till. Which is right beside where Martyn is sitting. Martyn chances a glance over at him from the corner of his eye, probably trying to check if he saw him burn his mouth, only to find Scott already watching him.

He grins.

“You know,” Martyn says. The hand resting on the table taps an irregular rhythm against its surface. “You never responded to my apology.”

“What response did you want?” Scott tips his head to the side, watching from the corner of his eye as a group of students starts packing up. “Me to fall over, swooning, at you giving an apology for prying into my personal life?”

“That…makes it sound a lot worse than it actually was,” Martyn frowns.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. Some of his hair is coming loose, swinging in front of his face. He sees Martyn’s eyes follow it, watching as he tucks it back with a gloved hand. 

“Sorry about that, again,” Martyn winces. “But I was thinking,”

“Oh dear,”

“I was thinking that I could make it up to you, maybe, like, take you out for coffee somewhere? Smooth things over all nice- maybe share several embarrassing stories about Jimmy?”

He stares at Martyn. He’s not actually sure if the man is being serious.

Martyn’s face twists in confusion, brows furrowing as he stares at Scott. Scott stares back. “Uh, you alright? You can just say no if you want to, I won't be offended, I swear.”

Scott stares at him for a moment longer.

“Okay, that’s kinda freaky. Can you stop?” Martyn’s leaning back in his chair slightly. “Please?”

“Sorry, I was just trying to figure out how you got into your marine biology course.”

“How do you know I do- actually, nevermind. What do you mean trying to figure out how I got in?”

“How someone so stupid got into a science course.” Pearl is listening now. He can tell, even though she hasn't actually moved from where she stands at the sink. He can tell, because the clinking of mugs and plates has stopped, meaning she isn't washing them to listen better.

“I'm not stupid .”

“Yes you are.” He holds up a hand when Martyn goes to protest. “No, you just asked a coffee shop manager to go out to coffee with you. Tell me how any part of that is remotely smart.”

Martyn blinks at him for several moments. Several, very long moments. “Okay. Maybe not my best and most thought out plan- I'm not exactly going to invite you to a bar am I?”

“Well no, you wouldn't be able to afford it.”

Martyn makes an offended noise in the back of his throat at that, mouth opening to speak. Before he can make another suggestion, Pearl interrupts, resting her chin on his shoulder to look at Martyn.

“Why don't you invite him to the party we’re having?” She asks, “That’s next week.”

“I, yeah, actually,” Martyn nods, “that’s not a bad idea at all.”

“You're having a party next week?” He turns on Pearl. “And you didn't invite me ?”

“I was gonna!” Pearl insists. “But it’s a good thing I didn't, huh? Because otherwise Martyn wouldn't have a good excuse to spend more time with you.” She then blinks very hard, which Scott is pretty sure is her attempt at a wink. He swallows down a laugh.

He turns back to Martyn and says, “Sure. I’ll come.”

“Oh, really?” Martyn looks actually surprised that he’s accepted. “Oh neat, well, you're gonna have to bring a drink of some kind.”

“One of those parties?”

“Yup!” Pearl nods, “We’re celebrating surviving the last week of this term.”

“Proud of you for doing that.” He pats Pearl on the shoulder, “It’s a miracle you didn't kill anyone.”

“How do you know I haven't already?”

He laughs, because he’s not sure what else he’s meant to do when Pearl gives him her best dead-eyed stare and he’s reminded of that one time they bumped into each other outside of work, at night, and her eyes shone like a cat’s.

Martyn starts laughing after a moment as well, but it’s got a faintly worried note to it and when Scott looks at him, his eyes are a little wider than normal, smile a little strained around the edges.

He leaves the conversation there, because there is no good way to continue it after someone says that. Pearl seems pleased with herself, at least.

Chapter Text

It’s a slightly warmer day than the past few days have been. Which isn't actually that much of an achievement, but it’s something, and so Scott is taking a moment to enjoy the sunny weather. Even if he steps outside and it would still threaten to freeze his scales off, the slightly warmer weather is enough to put him in a mostly good mood.

“Thank you,” he smiles at the customer, handing their drink over to them. The cardboard of the take-away cup is warm beneath his hand, even through the leather of his gloves. The customer glances at him, taking their drink with a squeaked out “thank you” before darting away to join their friends.

“I think you scared him.” Jimmy comments, leaning on the counter beside him.

“Really.” He stares after the customer, watching as he escapes the café quickly, glancing back once to see him still watching. He smiles again, just to watch the way he pales. “I couldn't tell.”

“I know you can do a nice smile,” Jimmy nudges at him, pushing him slightly to the side. Scott sways with the motion. “Not your whole,” Jimmy gestures vaguely, “baring your teeth in more of a threat smile.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my smile.” Scott knows exactly what Jimmy means, he perfected the smile a long time ago with nothing but a mirror and sheer force of will. His smile can be very nice when he wants it to be.

“I know,” Jimmy laughs, pushing off the counter to return to the till. “You managed to charm me, after all.”

“Doesn't take much to charm you,” Scott reminds him. Martyn’s sat at the front bar, accompanied by Cleo. Pixl had dropped by this morning for a quick chat whilst he waited for his tea before running off to whatever lessons he has. “Need I remind you of how Tango charmed you?”

“No.” Jimmy flushes, wings twitching as he looks away. He pretends to count the money in the till, even though Scott watched him do that twenty minutes ago, and they've had three customers between then and now. And they certainly don't need any extra change.

“Uhh, I want to hear that story,” Martyn leans forwards, bracing his forearms against the front bar to get closer. “Pretty please.” Cleo snorts at that, and Martyn shoots her a look from the corner of his eye before looking back at Scott.

They've sat next to each other several times over the past few days, since Cleo made a reappearance from wherever it was they disappeared off to for the week before that. Scott wouldn't say he’s an empath, but he’s pretty good at reading people. And those two have definitely met before and, if his guesses are right, it didn't end in the best way. Cleo watches him with barely concealed suspicion, as though they're waiting for him to do something stupid.

That expectation isn't far off, because he’s watched Martyn spill his drink down his shirt three times in the past five days, as well as drop one of the brownies on the floor and then stand on it. He’s certainly sweet, and rather endearing when he tries, but his grace leaves something to be desired.

“Oh, yes.” He grins at Jimmy, all sharp teeth and humour. “I would be delighted to tell you this story.”

“I wouldn't.” Jimmy inputs, but Scott ignores him. If Jimmy really wanted him to stop, he’d try far harder to shut him up, really, Scott is doing him a favour by sparing Jimmy from having to explain it himself.

“So, Jimmy was walking around the university, during one of the first few weeks that we were here. He was lost, not really sure where he was or where he needed to go, and looking for someone to help him. Now, unfortunately for our darling Jimmy,” Jimmy flushes, “it was nighttime, and most people had already been sensible and returned to wherever they were sleeping that night.

“And then, out of nowhere, he hears this really loud sound. Moments later, no less than a minute later, he smells smoke. And, like the smart person he is, he runs in the direction that the smell is coming from.”

“Good thing I did.” Jimmy mutters. There’s a customer at the till, watching their small back and forth with interested eyes. They pay, pressing the money into Jimmy's hand without thinking about it. Jimmy’s got a trustworthy kind of face anyway, the kind that people can't help but trust- Scott really needs to show him some sleight of hand tricks, especially for the customers that are rude to everyone but him.

“Oh, yes, very good,” he nods along, before leaning closer to Martyn as though what he’s about to share is a secret. “Jimmy had been moping around my dorm room for weeks , because he hadn't been able to get himself a date for ages and ages since we broke up, and, really, I think this was intervention from the heavens. Any longer and I’d have probably throttled Jimmy.”

“Wouldn't have helped with the rumours you killed someone.” Jimmy reminds him. The customer, waiting at the counter for the drink that Scott needs to start on in a minute, widens their eyes. He smiles at them, a little bit softer, not wanting to actually get reported to the police. It doesn't seem to help much.

“You know I wouldn't kill someone, dear,” he smiles at Jimmy’s back, hearing his scoff. “Anyway, we’ve got our heroic little canary, running towards the source of the smoke rather than away. And he finds it: a small fire in one of the engineering labs, from someone staying behind later than they should have and experimenting with far too many different things at once.”

“He’s creative ,” Jimmy defends, turning around to frown at Scott.

“Yes, yes, we’ve all heard.” Jimmy flushes at that. Jimmy is a chatty drunk, and also a lightweight. They have had many, many conversation that have quickly devolved into Jimmy just gushing about Tango, most of which he doesn't remember the next day. The few videos Scott has of him are evidence enough. They remain unreleased to the public. “Tango yelled for Jimmy to toss him the fire extinguisher, because he was busy trying to make sure his other projects didn't catch on fire. And-”

“Scott,” Jimmy whines. “C’mon, he doesn't need to hear the rest of the story.” Cleo laughs behind her hand, ducking her head when Jimmy turns his glare on her. If anything, she laughs harder, shoulders shaking as she tries to muffle her laughter.

“No, I'm intrigued now, you gotta tell me.” Martyn looks up at him, eyes shining with amusement. It takes every bit of willpower in Scott for his breath not to hitch at that moment, watching as the sun appears from behind a cloud and hits Martyn’s face. The moment only lasts a second because Martyn winces away from the light, squinting his eyes to continue watching Scott.

“Jimmy dropped the fire extinguisher on his foot.” The sound of Cleo’s head thumping against the front bar reaches his ears. They've heard the story several times over, but it never fails to amuse them. He can feel a grin tugging at his own lips, cheeks beginning to hurt slightly. “He still managed to toss Tango the fire extinguisher, almost hitting him in the head with it. Tango put the fire out and took Jimmy to A&E.”

“ A&E? ” Martyn asks, a laugh bubbling beneath his words. His smile causes the edges of his eyes to crinkle, causing him to squint even more than before, the sun still in his eyes. “You had to go to A&E?”

“He broke his foot,” Scott tells him. The customer is still waiting, but they seem just as intrigued by this story as Martyn, covering their laugh much more effectively. “He had to hobble around with a cast for a month, but luckily for him,” Jimmy scowls at him, “Tango was more than happy to walk him to his classes and carry his bag for him.”

“He also bought me coffee.” Jimmy mutters. “More than you did for me.”

Scott nods. “I laughed at him when he phoned me. And then drove to pick him up because Tango doesn't have a car.”

He turns to start making the customer’s drink, smiling and nodding at them in a thanks for their patience. He takes the ticket from Jimmy’s outstretched hand.

Steam hisses from the machine, drowning out whatever conversation Martyn has started with Jimmy. It takes him less than a minute before he’s setting the drink in front of the customer, smiling, a nice smile this time, and watching as they leave a two-pound coin in the tips jar and leave with a merry jangle of the bell.

It’s a quieter day than usual, something he’s not going to comment on in fear that it might cause a sudden influx of people- just spontaneously creating them out of thin air to prove him wrong.

He leans against the display, one arm lying across the top. Martyn’s watching him, absently stirring a spoon in his half-empty mug. He taps a few fingers against the glass, looking over what cakes they still have, tallying up what they’ll be able to sell tomorrow and what he needs to ask Pearl to make.

“What’s up with the gloves?” Martyn asks, pointing with his spoon when Scott doesn't immediately respond.

He hums, stretching his hands out and looking at his gloves. The white of the leather is bright compared to the dull purples and greys of the rest of the café. The only spot of colour on them is at the wrists, on the small leather strips that are used to tighten the wrist.

“I made them.” He responds.

“You made them?” Martyn’s eyebrows raise, and he looks over Scott’s hands again, more appreciatively as he takes in the gloves. Scott’s rather proud of them as well, turning his hand around, rotating the wrist, to give Martyn a better look. Even as his skin prickles with the attention on his hands.

He can feel Jimmy watching him, stood slightly closer than normal. He can feel the warmth of his body right next to him. Cleo watches him as well, her eyes narrowed as she stares him down. He refuses to meet either of their stares.

“Some of my proudest work,” he confirms. “Took me three weeks. Leather’s not very nice to work with, just a bit too thick for me to be comfortable.”

Martyn nods slowly, still holding his spoon loosely. It looks as though it’s going to drop it at any moment with how loosely it's being held. “But why wear them all the time?”

Jimmy stiffens behind him, but Scott gives no reaction. No outward reaction, still continuing to watch Martyn.

“My hands get cold.” He steps back from the counter, retrieving a pad of paper to start tallying up what Pearl needs to bake. He doesn't raise his eyes to look at Martyn. “I'm part-fish after all.”

“But they're leather,” Martyn says. “Leather doesn't keep your hands warm.”

“My hands get cold.” He repeats. He doesn't look up, and Martyn doesn't ask again.

*

Jimmy, wonderful, lovely, slightly stupid Jimmy, commented on how quiet it was just ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago, the café had been peaceful, hardly any customers there, no-one but Cleo sat at the front bar. Martyn, for once, wasn't there. He hasn't been in at all today, likely attending classes.

Scott isn't bothered by his absence. Even if Cleo keeps catching his eyes as they drift over to the front bar, quirking her eyebrows at him in question. He’s not looking for him, really . Cleo didn't seem to believe his silent communication of this, and she still looks doubtful.

Ten minutes ago, he’d had the time to think about Martyn’s absence. Now, he barely has time to think outside of making drinks and taking orders, allowing Jimmy to run about the shop. The mild weather of yesterday compared to the cold of today has made his leg ache something fierce, worse than if it had been a gradual descent into cold rather than a cold snap. Jimmy had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be limping around the café today.

Scott had scoffed at it at the time and told him not to boss his boss around. But he’s grateful for it now, leaning against the counter and taking some of the weight off his leg as he works on a drink.

He sets it on a saucer, sliding it across the counter for Jimmy to take out to a customer. He turns back around, wiping the steam wand down, and preparing to start the next drink when the entire café falls silent.

He turns around, suspicion and apprehension already clawing at the corners of his mind. Jimmy stands in the centre of it, wings ruffled and face panicked. But he doesn't take his eyes off of the woman in front of him.

Scott steps up behind the till, ignoring the ache in his leg from how quickly he’d twisted on it. The mug, along with the drink, are on the floor. The mug seems to have survived the impact, lying unharmed.

The woman seems less impressed by this, leaning towards Jimmy, jabbing him in the chest with an accusing finger. Her nails flash like talons, poking into Jimmy’s chest with each word, as though to punctuate it.

He steps out from behind the counter, sweeping past the front bar and the several people currently sat at it, towards the epicentre of the mess.

“Excuse me,” he says, frowning when the woman ignores him, continuing to berate Jimmy. He clears his throat. “ Excuse me .” He repeats, louder than before. The woman turns to him with a scowl and coffee spilt down her front.

It’s staining her coat. A coat that Scott remembers because she wears it every time she comes in. Insufferable woman. She’s rude to everyone, including him, but most of all Jimmy- people normally like Jimmy. He’s a sweet guy with a smile for everyone. It’s hard to dislike him. He hasn't been able to ban her from the premises yet, hasn't been able to threaten her with anything because he has nothing beyond a few snide comments on canaries and sirens.

“Did you need something?” She snaps, her voice imperious.

“Yes, actually.” He smiles at her, all polite and sharp edges. “Jimmy, dear, go take your break.” Jimmy puts up a small protest, something that dwindles quickly when Scott raises a hand, not taking his eyes off the woman. “Please, you've been working for several hours already and it’s almost your lunch. Take your break.”

Jimmy hesitates a moment longer, before disappearing into the back. Scott watches the door swing shut from the corner of his eye before he focuses back on the woman.

“Was there a complaint you wished to make?” He asks, smile sweet. Everyone in the shop is watching them, eyes fixed on the spectacle that’s undoubtedly about to go down.

The woman sniffs, attempting to look down her nose at him. A hard feat indeed, seeing as she’s at least a foot shorter than him. “Your staff are incompetent.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. He hears someone laugh, then choke it off and turn it into a cough as the woman’s gaze rakes over the people behind him. “Do you have any examples?”

“Your… canary ,” the woman gestures towards where Jimmy just disappeared, “spilled coffee on me.”

“I can see that.” He says. “I do apologise for the inconvenience, but the shop is busy and mistakes do happen.”

“This wasn't a mistake,” the woman frowns. She’s wearing some awful, bright purple lipstick and it’s taking all of Scott’s willpower to not ask if she’s colourblind. That would be rude to colourblind people, to lump this woman in with them. “He’s a canary , he brings disaster with him wherever he steps. Having him working here is a hazard.”

“He’s perfectly competent. In fact, many people find him rather nice.” He smiles at the woman. “It is also against the law to discriminate against someone based on their species; implying that he’s a hazard to have around simply because he has a higher chance of bad luck is just plain rude.”

“Don't speak to me with that tone, young man.”

“I apologise for the tone you are hearing, ma’am,” he nods his head, “but I am trying my best to keep it neutral.”

“If it helps,” one of the other customers speaks up, a student from one of the studying groups, “she stepped backwards into him, rather than him running into her.”

Scott looks back at the woman.

She seems a little flustered now, “Well, he shouldn't have been in the way.”

“I think you might have been in the way rather than the other way around.” He says.

“You listen here, young man,” she raises her hand to poke him in the chest, her nails like claws. He cuts her off, hand circling around her wrist, pressing hard against the watch there. She gapes at him for a moment, mouth wide and flapping as she looks for words, failing to come up with them as she stares at him.

“I think I've heard enough,” he is very careful to keep his tone neutral, his grip loose. “I would appreciate it if you would leave. We are busy right now and if you wish to make a formal complaint you would be waiting upwards of an hour. If the complaint is still playing on your mind after that, feel free to return and make the complaint.”

The woman wrenches her wrist from his grip and he pulls his hand back to his side, curling it into a fist. The leather of his gloves creaks quietly.

“Fine,” the woman sniffs, turning on her heel and striding from the café. He watches her go, the bell ringing loudly in the silence left behind, the customers all staring at him.

He claps his hands together with an only slightly awkward laugh. “Apologies for the interruption, please, feel free to return to your drinks and conversations.” He turns then and, hoping his gait doesn't look too stiff, walks back behind the counter.

Martyn has made an appearance, he realises, between the start of the rush and now, presumably before the woman started complaining too, because Scott would have noticed him entering then. Cleo watches him too, though they lean over the counter as soon as he’s behind it, close enough that their conversation won't be heard over the nervous conversations just starting back up.

“What’d you get?” She asks, peering curiously at his closed hand. “Anything exciting?”

“Who’s to say I took anything?”

Cleo levels him with a look that tells him he’s not kidding anyone. He laughs, unfurling his hand to reveal the woman’s watch.

“Scott!” Martyn gasps. He glances over at the till worriedly, waiting for some customer to realise what he’s done and run after the woman. But no one stands at the till, everyone that had apparently been waiting for drinks magically disappearing. He stares at the empty space for a moment longer, long enough that Jimmy emerges from the back, door swinging shut behind him.

“It’s not even real,” he bemoans, turning the watch carefully beneath the light. “It’s a cheap knock-off.”

“Disappointing.” Cleo sighs and sits back. “It was loose enough around her wrist anyway, she’ll probably just think she lost it.”

“And by the time she comes back, if she comes back it’ll be long gone.” He shoves the watch in his pocket, pretending not to notice the way Martyn’s eyes linger on him. He doesn't know whether he’ll be able to look at the man, just to realise that his eyes have filled with disgust, or something similar, when Scott’s begun to look at him so fondly.

“Couldn't you have stolen her necklace?” Martyn asks, breaking the silence between them. “Looked far more valuable.”

The relief Scott feels is palpable, enough to make his knees feel weak. He steadies himself against the counter, clearing his throat a little awkwardly as he summons his words from where they've retreated.

Cleo watches him with a knowing smile. He glares at her.

“Nah,” he manages, hoping it doesn't sound like he’s choking on his words. It feels like he’s choking on his words. “The gem on that necklace is fake. A pretty piece of glass.”

“Bummer.” Martyn says, and that’s it.

Well, that’s it, except from the knowing looks both Cleo and Jimmy give him. Nuisances, the both of them.

Chapter Text

It’s exactly nine pm on a mediocre Tuesday evening when someone knocks at his door. He pauses, listening as the person knocks twice in rapid succession, then pauses, and a quieter, third knock follows not long after.

He turns back to his pan, poking at the noodles with a fork, swirling them around in the boiling water. “It’s open,” he calls, just loud enough to be heard.

He waits, and then a moment later the door creaks open, the sound of feet shuffling over carpet reaching his ears. “Take your shoes off.”

“What if I’d been a murderer?” Jimmy asks. Scott waits, not turning around to face him yet, still poking at the noodles. The steam rising off the pot warms his hands, even through his gloves, and he appreciates the small shred of warmth it gives him even as condensation collects on his gloves.

The radiator rattles in the corner, sounding far more like something getting ready to explode than something that heats his apartment. He continues waiting, listening as Jimmy sighs heavily, as though incredibly put-upon, and slips his shoes off. He ruins the moment by chucking them towards the front door, missing by several inches. They slam into the wall instead.

“Very few murderers are polite enough to knock, Jimmy dear,” he brushes past Jimmy - there’s hardly enough space for one person in this kitchen, let alone two - reaching over him and into the top cupboard, pulling one of the bowls down. “And even fewer are kind enough to bring me wine.”

Jimmy grips the bottle of wine a little tighter, glancing down at it, looking surprised, as though he only just remembered he had it. “Oh, uh, yes,” Jimmy laughs, holding it out towards Scott.

Scott quirks an eyebrow, hands full of boiling hot pan and the other making sure his dinner doesn't get washed down the sink as he drains the water away. Jimmy clears his throat and sets it on the side, careful to slide it as far away from the edge as possible. Scott appreciates it, one wine stain on his carpet is enough.

“Any particular thing we’re celebrating?” He asks, “As far as I was aware, the party isn't until Friday.”

“It isn't,” Jimmy shuffles back and forth on the spot, wings flexing. Scott almost smiles a little at the action, reminded of a much younger Jimmy doing almost the exact same thing when he asked if he wanted to be friends. “Can't I just come see my friend?”

“Best friend,” Scott corrects, sitting at the table. Jimmy sits down across from him, though he’s wise enough not to lean his arms on the table. It wobbles, rather badly, and is currently propped up by several wadded pieces of paper and hope. And probably some kind of divine intervention too. “And not with wine that expensive.”

“It wasn't that expensive,” Jimmy tries to protest, but he already sounds like he’s giving up on his own argument. Scott nods along, beginning to eat his noodles, waiting for Jimmy to cave. “It was on offer.” Jimmy says.

“You cheaping out on me?”

“You were just-!” Jimmy cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “Are you eating instant noodles again?”

“I had an apple while I made them.”

“Scott,”

“Jimmy,” he parrots back, eating another mouthful of noodles. “They're cheap and easy, it is nine at night. I'm not about to bust out the chopping board and hope the oven works properly.”

“You sound like me,” Jimmy jokes, smiling. He doesn't move to do anything else, but he keeps his eyes carefully averted from Scott as he eats, something that Scott finds himself appreciating despite how much he wants to hate it.

“Yeah, but there’s something actually wrong with my oven. You just touch it and it explodes.”

“That was a microwave.”

“Not my point,” Scott leans back in his chair, meeting Jimmy’s eyes for a moment before Jimmy looks away again. “Why’re you here?” He grins, “Wait, no, let me guess…there’s paper covering every inch of free space?”

Jimmy groans, head thunking down to the table. It wobbles precariously, groaning like it’s going to give in and collapse beneath the weight of air and his bowl. He almost expects it to, with Jimmy sat across from him- that definitely cancels out whatever divine intervention that’s kept this table standing for as long as it has. It remains standing, by some miracle. Maybe another divine intervention.

“I love him,” Jimmy says, “and his projects are genius, but I wish he could keep them at least a little bit contained. Just one table, that’s all I want. I’d even take half a table at this point!”

Scott pushes Jimmy backwards, removing his head from the table, when the wood creaks dangerously again. He pulls his bowl backwards as well, cradling it in his hands as he watches his table carefully, ready for the moment of betrayal.

“What’s he working on this time?”

“Decked Out,” Jimmy smiles to himself, probably doesn't even realise he’s doing it. “The idea’s really good, it’s looking great, you know?” Scott’s seen the schematics maybe once in the years he’s known Tango, and even the sketches he saw are nothing compared to what Jimmy tells him about.

“Yeah,” he nods along. The last mouthful of noodles are cold, but he eats them anyway and stands. The bowl gets dumped in the sink, and he promises he’s going to wash it before he wakes in a cold sweat, visions of his sink being overtaken by mould in his mind. That only happened the once, and he fixed it. Everything was fine afterwards, even if everything stank of bleach. “You want the fancy glasses?”

“As long as you have some to spare.” Jimmy jokes. Scott has several of his favourite wine glasses, fancy ones that he pulls out when he wants to mope on the sofa with Jimmy, or gossip about something and feel far more successful than he actually is.

“I always do,” he pulls the two nearest the edge out, setting them on the side. “Sit on the sofa, I’ll be over in a moment.”

Jimmy doesn't reply, but he does hear the squeaking of the sofa a moment later. He fills the glasses halfway, aware that they're going to be drinking straight from the bottle after the second glass.

He sets the bottle down on his side of the sofa, far away from any stray hands or wings that might try and knock it over. He presses the glass into Jimmy’s hands, not releasing it until he’s certain that Jimmy’s got a good enough grip on it to not spill it over himself. He settles on the other side of the sofa, tucking his legs beneath himself.

“How’s Lizzie?” He asks. He hasn't seen her around very much, just in brief glimpses as she visits the café, sometimes with Joel and sometimes not.

“She’s doing great,” Jimmy smiles, taking a sip of his wine. Scott does the same, settling further into the cushions. He can hear the clock ticking from the doorway, has to resist the urge to glance over at it, to watch as the hand ticks around and around, counting down the seconds of his evening. He continues to watch Jimmy.

“She’s been helping out at the vets, right?” He asks, “The one around the corner from,” he gestures vaguely, but Jimmy seems to get what he means anyway.

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, she has. Really been enjoying it too, even if some of the animals are…difficult.” Jimmy winces.

“The animals or the owners?”

“The animals. Mostly. Some people asked her whether it was ethical for her to work in a vets with all the animals.”

“And I'm certain that went fantastic.” Scott laughs, absently swirling the wine in his glass, watching as it sloshes against the rim, threatening to spill over.

“Oh, yeah. All the people there love her, she was pretty sure the receptionist was gonna vault over his desk to throttle them. She was very polite about it all, much more polite than I would have been.”

“Probably too nice,” he mutters.

“Oh, nah, she told them the rabbit needed specialist food. Super expensive kind, all the staff knew what she was doing and let it happen. The owner didn't even realise, was more flustered about the fact everyone looked like they were gonna kill her.”

“Same person would probably have a fit over you two being related.”

“Genetics is fucked,” Jimmy shrugs. “My mum didn't even know that there were cat genes on her side. Apparently it was my great-great-nan’s sister. Or something.”

“Quite a connection.”

Jimmy hums, tapping a finger against the edge of his glass. It rings quietly in the silence that follows. Scott would turn the TV on, but the remote is just out of reach and he can't be bothered to stretch and grab it. His feet ache from being stood all day, and his leg feels three different kinds of wrong at the moment. The clock ticks on in the background.

He sits up. “More wine?”

“We have work in the morning,” Jimmy says, frowning at him. He already seems a little softer around the edges, the alcohol loosening his limbs and leaving his brain a little slower.

“And I'm your boss, hardly gonna tell you off for coming in hungover.”

“But you're gonna be fine tomorrow,” Jimmy whines, “it’s not fair.”

“If you want someone to feel miserable alongside you, find another drinking buddy.” He fills Jimmy’s glass halfway again. “You knew what you were getting into when you came here, even if you stood outside for ten minutes and shuffled back and forth.”

“You heard that?” Jimmy’s cheeks tinge pink.

“Course I did,” his fins wiggle for emphasis, “I can hear everything.”

“No you can't.”

“Deidre below us definitely can. And she’s going to be up here, asking about that lovely boy that was over last night, and, oh, what was his name ?”

“That’s a horrible impression of her,” Jimmy laughs. “Isn't she like, eighty? Why does she care?”

“She thinks I'm lonely.” He shrugs. “She’s sweet, really, if far too nosy. Likes to drop round a lasagne every once in a while. Tell me I'm not eating enough.”

“You don't eat enough,” Jimmy frowns. “What number did you say she lived at?”

“I didn't.” Jimmy kicks him and Scott kicks him back, digging the heel of his foot into Jimmy’s ribs. “For this exact reason.”

“Alright, alright,” Jimmy smacks at his ankle, twisting away from him, wine getting dangerously close to spilling everywhere. “You've made your point.” He digs his heel in, just a little bit more, before tucking his leg beneath him again. Jimmy settles back into the sofa cushions, squishing himself down until he looks ready to fall asleep. Scott watches his wine glass carefully. “I don't have anything else to talk about now,” Jimmy frowns.

“I'm sure you’ll come up with something.” The silence isn't as bad as it could be, nowhere near as oppressive as the silence in his apartment normally is. Normally, it’s dead quiet, the sound of the fridge humming is quiet, everything overshadowed by the ticking of the clock. A constant reminder of the seconds slipping past, tumbling out of his grasp no matter how hard he tries to grab onto them.

Jimmy, here, present, in his apartment; just another human being sitting beside him on the sofa is enough to push that claustrophobic feeling back, dispelling it with the sounds of feathers rustling against each other and the shifting of fabric as Jimmy fidgets.

Jimmy makes a small noise in the back of his throat, perking up. Scott watches him from the corner of his eye, smiling into his wine glass. His smile quickly fades as Jimmy’s grin from finding a topic of conversation turns to a smirk as he settles comfortably back into the cushion behind himself, kicking his feet into Scott’s lap.

“You've been smiling more at work recently.”

“Have I?” He hasn't noticed if he has been. His thoughts have been occupied with other matters at work recently. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Mhm.” Jimmy’s nodding along, smiling like he knows something Scott doesn't. He doesn't like the feeling. Normally he’s the one smiling at Jimmy like that- does it always feel so horrible? He scowls at Jimmy, flicking him on the ankle.

“Out with it,” he demands. “What’s got you sat there like the cat that got the canary?”

“Ouch,” Jimmy says. “Maybe choose your words a little more carefully next time.”

Scott doesn't respond, preparing to flick Jimmy again. Jimmy obviously senses this as he begins to talk. Smart guy.

“I'm talking about Martyn ,” Jimmy shimmies his shoulders. One of his wings wedges itself a little further between the cushions with the motion, though Jimmy doesn't seem to care. “You smile at him- even Pix noticed! He asked me if there was something going on .”

“There’s nothing going on.” He says. “And you can tell Pix that.”

“But do you want there to be something going on?” Jimmy asks, and all traces of his joking from before disappear, as though they’d never been there in the first place. The sudden switch leaves Scott feeling very disoriented- he’s been feeling off-kilter since Jimmy sat down with him. It’s like the rug has been ripped out from beneath him and he’s still not hit the ground, still falling. “Because, I, ugh,” Jimmy tips forward and Scott jolts, prepared to catch his glass if he drops it (he seriously will not be getting his deposit back if Jimmy spills wine on his carpet), but Jimmy just groans, cradling his head in one hand. “How the hell do I explain this?”

“I think you're taking this too seriously.” Scott says, taking a sip of wine. Jimmy looks up at him, a gleam in his eye, promptly reminding Scott that he’s far too sober for this conversation.

“So there is something!” Jimmy sounds far too triumphant right now. “Aw, I knew it. Pearl’s gonna be so pissed .”

“You're rather invested in this,” he comments.

“Course I am,” Jimmy pokes his foot into Scott’s stomach, the warm weight of his legs across Scott’s increasing for a moment before decreasing again. “You're my best friend, I want to see you happy.”

Scott hums, low and in the back of his throat as he considers what Jimmy’s just said. He hasn't been thinking about it, trying his best not to, really. To think about it would mean he’d have to make a decision on what to do about it. And lingering in silence isn't going very well for him so far, if his friends have noticed it so easily. The thought that his friends might have spoken about him, spoken about this , makes him feel a little uncomfortable, warm with embarrassment.

He takes another sip, refusing to meet Jimmy’s eyes.

“Martyn’s nice too,” Jimmy continues. “He’s studying marine bio, and he seems good at it. But he’s also a nice guy, everyone that knows him has nothing but good things to say.”

“You don't need to pitch him to me, Jimmy.” He cracks a smile at the sheer absurdity of it all, looking up to meet Jimmy’s eyes. They're shining with something like excitement, and it’s almost bright enough to cover up the sadness underneath, the lingering emotion that Jimmy never wants to address, even when it creeps up on him.

“Oh, that’s fantastic, you know, he said-”

“You don't have to feel bad, Jimmy.” He says it before he can stop himself. And maybe he really should stop drinking while he has these conversations. Maybe he’d be able to keep a few more of his thoughts to himself, tucked neatly away where his friends can only guess at them. He used to be far better at it.

“I don't feel bad , what are you talking about?”

Scott smiles, tilting his head to the side as he considers the way Jimmy is smushed into the sofa cushions, head leaning against it, feet resting on Scott's lap. His feathers are ruffled and his eyes are tired. It’s late, and they both have a morning shift tomorrow.

“Did you want to stay here?” He asks, ignoring the small flash of disappointment in Jimmy’s eyes, looking around the room instead. The clock ticks in the background, slowly inching their way towards ten. The radiator has ceased its rattling, but only because the heating’s been switched off.

“I- not if it’s inconvenient for you.” Jimmy makes to stand, empty wine glass held loosely, close to slipping free from his hand. Scott takes it from him carefully, pushing him back into the sofa.

“I'm not going to make you walk back to yours this late.” He says, quietly. Everything feels far too loud right now, his heart beating uncomfortably loud in his ears. The comfort of five minutes prior has evaporated, leaving him far more sober than he wants to be. Jimmy watches him carefully, before clearly leaning back into the sofa.

Scott leaves the pair of glasses on the counter, beside the sink. Beside the pot that he’s going to wash tomorrow. Leaving it overnight makes his skin crawl, thinking of what he could emerge to find in the morning- but he knows now that mould can't spread that fast or far.

Jimmy’s eyes are shut when he steps back towards the sofa, his head tilted at an awkward angle and wings twisted behind him. He jabs him between the ribs, ducking as Jimmy flails at him before realising who it is and settling back grumpily. “You don't have to do that every time you know.”

“You sleep like the dead,” Scott informs him, for possibly the thousandth time in their friendship. “C’mon, you've slept on the sofa once, and that was punishment enough for everyone you interacted with that day.”

“I can't make you sleep on the sofa,” Jimmy protests.

“Which is why I won't be sleeping on the sofa.” Jimmy frowns at him. “My bed is plenty big enough for two, the worst danger is waking up with feathers in my mouth.”

“Hey!” Jimmy hops up from the sofa, suddenly full of energy. “You know that’s never happened.”

He doesn't choose to respond to that, stepping through into his bedroom, ignoring the way his leg throbs a little. It aches, not quite as badly as it did yesterday, but it still lingers, like something gnawing at the bones there. He digs about in his drawers, looking for something that might fit Jimmy - he’s hardly going to let the guy sleep in his jeans - and tosses it over his shoulder when he finds it.

There’s the sound of something soft impacting flesh and then the muffled sounds of a bird dying. His aim’s still perfect, then.

He only waits for the bathroom door to click shut before he changes out of his own clothes, slipping on the softer pyjamas and tucking himself into bed. He worries at the cuffs of his gloves as he watches the bathroom door, staring at the golden light that outlines it, small streaks of that light slipping further into the dark room.

The door opens, creaking, and the light clicks off a moment later. The bed dips beside him and he turns to face Jimmy. Jimmy stares back at him, face barely visible in the darkness of his room.

“Are you going to stare at me all night?” He asks, breaking the silence between them. Jimmy huffs, but lies down. He’s stiff next to Scott, but relaxes when Scott does nothing but settle a little more comfortably into his bed, drawing the blankets up around his chin.

The leather of his gloves creaks quietly as he tightens his grip, tugging the blankets a little more securely around himself.

Jimmy inhales. “You don't have to wear those for me.” He says.

“I know.” Scott says. Jimmy’s eyes are closed, and Scott could almost believe he was asleep if Jimmy hadn't spoken a moment ago. He has this ability to look at peace, no matter where he is. “I'm not.”

“Alright,” Jimmy says. “I was just letting you know you could take them off. If you wanted to.”

He can hear the ticking of the clock, the sound flooding his room in the silence that follows. He listens to it, swallowing down the first few responses that come to mind.

“Go to sleep Jimmy.”

Chapter Text

“And you’ll be there?” Jimmy leans against the counter, on the opposite side than he normally is. He stares at Scott, watching him carefully. The tips jar is rather full today, the coins stacking up inside are just peeking over the edges of the label, well over halfway to being full. “Definitely?”

“Well, I'm not about to let the cider I bought go to waste, am I?”

“I don't know,” Tango stands by the door, both drinks in hand as he waits for Jimmy to finish his conversation. He smiles at Scott when he catches his eye before looking away again, watching the people outside, on the street. “Maybe you will! How am I meant to know? I don't think you even know what you're gonna do half the time.”

“I’ll be there,” Scott settles a hand over the back of Jimmy’s hand, patting it a few times before pulling back again. When he looks up, Jimmy is regarding him with suspicion.

“I know where you live.”

“I am well aware.” He smiles at Jimmy’s frown deepening, bordering on the edge of a scowl. “You show up uninvited every few days, it’s rather hard to forget.”

“I have nothing against dragging you, kicking and screaming, out of your apartment.”

“We’d both fall down the stairs and break our necks,” Scott notes. The café is quiet, with most students either in exams, sleeping off a hangover, or already preparing to go home for the holidays. The customers left behind are their regulars, or far too tired to listen to their conversation, so no one spares them a second glance. Tango glances back at them again, tail twisting behind him before it stills. “Knowing your luck.”

Jimmy does scowl then, face scrunching up and feathers ruffling.

“I’ll be there,” he promises, before Jimmy can say something else. “For now, I think there’s someone waiting for you,” he glances pointedly in Tango’s direction, “with two slowly cooling coffees.”

“Fine,” Jimmy pushes back from the counter. “I will bring other people to your apartment, and then they’ll know where you live.”

“The horror.” He replies, deadpan. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy waves him goodbye as he leaves, already caught up in Tango again, the bell twinkling behind the pair. Tango tucks his nose into his scarf as soon as they leave, pulling his winter coat tighter around his shoulders. He looks like a middle-aged mother, with a coat that long. But Jimmy refuses to hear a word against it, quoting that Tango gets colder during winter than he normally does. Tango’s hair catches on fire on the regular, so Scott is less inclined to believe him.

His front bar is empty today, all of his friends abandoning him for some random thing or another. He tries not to feel too upset by their absence, reminding himself that it’s an unusually intense period of the year for them, even if most of it is already over. And he’s going to see them later anyway, so there’s no point in missing them.

He pointedly does not think about Martyn. He doesn't .

*

He’s never been to Grian’s house before, despite being friends with the man for several years. He knows he shares it with his sister and several of his friends, all of them living in different areas of the house. It’s not particularly big, but he vividly remembers Grian telling him how he thought one of his friends was dead because they didn't see him for two weeks. When he did find the friend, they were asleep in a wash basket. Scott learned not to question it. 

He’s heard more than enough rumours about the Zedaph character that pops up every now and again in the various stories he gets told. From what he’s gathered from other people (because he’s never actually met the guy- he’s doubtful that the guy even exists ) the man is insane. He’s friends with Tango, apparently, and Jimmy sees him every now and then. Apparently he fell asleep on a lamp, once.

He barely has the opportunity to knock a second time before the door swings open and he almost smacks Grian in the face. Warmth and light spill out onto the street, a gust of warmth sweeping over him and beginning to thaw his frozen scales out. Then he’s being grabbed, manhandled through the door as though worried he’s going to turn tail and bolt. It’s so abrupt that he almost drops the drinks he brought with him, stumbling over the threshold of the house.

It’s still beyond him how Grian manages to afford this place, even with his host of odd roommates.

Grian bounces in place in front of him, giddy with excitement and beaming. It’s jarring, and Scott finds himself leaning slightly backwards, away from the energy Grian is exuding. His arms are being yanked up and down from the grip Grian still has on him, and it’s entirely possible that he’s just forgotten he’s holding onto Scott.

“Good evening,” he greets, allowing Grian to jerk his arms about in his excitement for a few moments longer before he carefully extracts himself from Grian’s grip. “Seems the party’s already started.”

“Started an hour ago,” Grian sounds breathless, and more than a little drunk already. “We were about to send out a search party for you, was drawing straws to decide who should be the one to drag you out.”

“I made my own way here just fine.” He scans over Grian again, taking in the slight flush of his face. “And I doubt any of you should have been out on the streets if you’re all like this.”

“We aren't,” Jimmy pokes his head around the doorway, leaning forward slightly with the weight of a clingy boyfriend. Scott’s seen the way the two cling to each other many times, especially when they were more in the habit of both coming to his apartment to hang out with him. He has to smother his laugh at the sight of Tango’s arms slowly tightening around Jimmy’s neck, legs wrapped around his waist. He looks like an oversized, flammable koala. He smothers his laugh by disguising it as a cough into the crook of his elbow. He does a pretty poor job of it, based on Jimmy’s responding glare

“You alright there?” He asks. Jimmy’s face scrunches up, nose wrinkling in irritation. “You seem a little…burdened.”

“We were drinking before everyone else got here,” Grian informs him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him down. Scott almost thinks he’s going to whisper in his ear, but when he speaks it’s closer to a shout. He has to fight not to wince and cringe away as Grian continues, “Just a little bit, and then a little bit turned into actually quite a bit , and then Tango was sad. Because Timmy wasn't here ! And so we then had to wait, with a sad Tango, until Timmy arrived. And then we were all fine again!”

“Easy for you to say,” Tango grumbles. His tail sweeps across the floor, dragging over the carpeted entryway. Scott’s still in his winter coat, and it’s beginning to get too hot to wear it. But Grian also has a tight grip around his neck, and he knows the man did some kind of fighting classes as a kid. He’s not escaping this hold any time soon- at least not until Grian lets him go. “Your boyfriend is right there . You live in the same house as him.”

“Timmy also lives in the same house as you,” Grian frowns, taking a step forward, pulling Scott with him. “You share a room. You share a bed .”

“Oh my god!” Tango twists, releasing his hold on Jimmy. He almost slips to the floor, and Scott can see it now, the long drive to the nearest emergency room. Jimmy fumbles, but manages to keep him from that fate by grabbing him and holding him tight to his chest. Tango doesn't even seem to notice, more focused on trying to glare at Grian. Which seems to be taking some effort. “You can't just yell about that! What if there’s someone… homophobic .”

“There’s no one homophobic here,” Jimmy says. He pats Tango on the head, running a hand through his hair. Tango makes a huffing noise, sounding scarily like the street cat Scott befriended when he was twelve. But instead of hissing and lashing out, he just turns and wraps his arms around Jimmy’s neck again.

“How much did he have to drink?” He asks.

Jimmy makes a pained face, a small noise dying in the back of his throat before he speaks. “One shot of vodka.”

“He’s almost as bad as you, you were just made for each other.” He teases, voice light.

“Thanks, Scott.” Jimmy disappears back around the corner, back to whatever party is currently going on. It’s quieter than he expected it to be, but he can still hear the slight sounds of music from the next room over.

Grian doesn't release him, turning him around until they're face to face, until Grian’s face is inches away from his own.

“Careful,” he nudges Grian back an inch, until they don't look like they're about to kiss. “You're great and all, but I don't want to kiss you.”

“Ew,” Grian shoves him back another step, shaking his head. It loosens his grip just enough that Scott manages to slip free, pulling his coat off. “I don't wanna kiss you. I have a boyfriend.”

“I know.” He hangs his coat up beside the others, confident that it won't be stolen. Or at least not taken on purpose.

“I wanted to say something,” Grian stares at the floor for several long moments, and Scott waits. He’s curious about how much Grian’s had to drink, if he’s already drunk. And how much of a lightweight he is in comparison to Tango. “Oh! Yes!” He’s grinning again, pulling Scott closer. The curl of his lips does not fill Scott with confidence. “Martyn is here,” he whispers. Like it’s a secret.

“I know.” He whispers back, deciding to entertain Grian just this once. And uncertain of the sudden quiet that has descended over the entrance. “He invited me.”

“And?” Grian blinks up at him.

“And what?”

“What are you gonna do about him?” Grian nudges at him, grinning, still. “He’s been making eyes at you for weeks , and you're all he can talk about, when you're not there. You've got him obsessed, Mr. Smajor.”

“Still not my last name,”

“And until you give me a last name, that’s what it will remain.” Grian grins up at him. “Mr. Smajor.”

“Alright,” he carefully extracts himself from Grian’s hands (-didn't he already do this? When did Grian grab him again?) . “Where d’you want the drinks?”

“In the kitchen,” Grian says, gesturing vaguely to the house ahead of him. Scott nods, smiling, like he definitely knows where he’s going. Apparently, it’s convincing enough, because Grian wanders back into the main room.

It leaves Scott in the entrance, clutching his box of drinks, and considering- actually, really, considering dropping the drinks off and then leaving again. He can at least say he came, then. He arrived at the party, and then left again. Maybe a bit earlier and quicker than everyone else expected, but he still upheld his end of the deal.

He sighs, pushing past that and ignoring the thoughts of a nice, peaceful evening at home. He wants to spend time with his friends, even if that means spending time in an unfamiliar place.

He pokes his head into the second room he comes across, relieved when he finds that it is indeed the kitchen he was looking for.

Xisuma looks up from where he’s stood, nodding in greeting before returning to his phone. It’s plugged in, and X leans over it, squinting at the screen as he brings it closer to his face.

“You're gonna damage your eyes like that,” he comments. He sets the drinks down on the counter, beside the other bottles of alcohol. Simply looking at the sheer amount of it makes his head pulse a little, a sharp spike behind his eye that makes him feel vaguely ill.

X hums, then looks up, blinking as he registers Scott’s words. “I already wear glasses, I can hardly damage them further.”

“Now,” Scott laughs, leaning back against the counter, “you say that, but I know someone that had to wear jam jars for glasses, the lenses were so thick.”

“Lens thinning exists for a reason,” X responds. He continues squinting at his phone. “I don't think this is legible anyway, the writing is just so…”

“Bad?” X nods, then volunteers the phone up, allowing Scott to peer at the…he’s not actually sure what he’s meant to be looking at, actually. “What is this?”

“God knows,” Xisuma sighs, taking the phone back. “I missed a few classes and thought I could get the notes off one of my classmates, but either they took this while running, or they simply hate me.”

“I doubt they hate you,” he says. It’s hard to imagine someone hating the man. He’s nice to everyone he speaks to, if not a little awkward. He’s good at managing the more eccentric habits of his friends, too, from what Scott’s heard. “You're, like, the nicest guy around.”

“Don't let Martyn hear you say that,” Xisuma comments, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “He might get jealous.”

Scott wishes, not for the first time in his life and definitely not for the last time, that the floor would simply open up and swallow him whole. Or some deity would take pity on him and smite him where he stands.

“You know about that?”

“All the Hermits do,” Xisuma glances up at him, before apparently giving up on deciphering whatever it is that his classmate sent to him and switching his phone off. “There’s a bet on it.”

He sighs. “I'm not actually surprised.”

“They haven't told Martyn yet, so I wouldn't worry.” Xisuma reassures, though he looks more amused by it than anything. “And Pearl remembered to wipe the whiteboard off as well,” he continues at Scott’s confused look. “It had all the bets on it and the timescales for when…yeah.”

“Thanks for telling me,”

“Not a problem,” X smiles. “You going through?”

“Probably should.” A cheer rises from the next room, alongside a few groans. He’s not sure what they're doing in there, but it’s definitely loud. X winces at the volume, muttering something about noise complaints. Scott would’ve thought that their neighbours would already be desensitised to the noise. “Reckon they'd drag me through otherwise.”

As though summoned by his words, Jimmy stumbles in through the doorway. Tango is suspiciously absent, no longer hanging from his neck like an overly emotional koala. Jimmy brightens up when he spots him, grinning from ear to ear and lunging towards him.

“C’mon!” He’s weirdly breathless, cheeks flushed and his hands are clammy when he grabs at Scott. He doesn't even give him a choice, dragging him through. Scott leans back against it for a moment, digging his heels in, before he realises that Jimmy is unaffected and is simply continuing to drag him from the kitchen.

He casts one last look back at Xisuma, trying to communicate his desperate need for help. Xisuma avoids his eyes, sipping at a drink he didn't have a moment ago.

Scott will remember that next time X arrives at the café tired and deprived of caffeine. He makes sure to communicate this in his glare, in the last few moments he spends before being dragged towards the crowd, even if Xisuma faces away from him. The man feels it anyway, he’s perceptive like that.

“Scott!” Several people cry out at once, some slurring their words more than others. Pearl looks pretty happy to see him, waving at him despite being only a few feet away from him. She seems to realise this a moment later as she flings herself across the distance, colliding with Scott harshly enough to send them both to the floor.

He thanks whoever bought this rug for cushioning their fall and making sure they don't end up in A&E.

“Pearl,” he pats her awkwardly on the head. She’s absolutely drunk. There’s no way she isn't, especially not with how she’s hugging him still, clinging on when she’d rather punch you in the arm than hug someone. Though she does seem to be attempting to break his ribs. Or at least crack a few.

When his clawing at her arms apparently gets desperate enough Cleo hauls her away with a laugh. Pearl doesn't seem to care too much, simply turning her affections onto the nearest limb. Which happens to be Cleo’s arm.

“Right,” he manages, once he no longer feels as though his lungs are going to collapse. “Clingy drunk. Forgot that.”

“Hard to forget when she uses you as a pillow most of the time.” Cleo shakes their arm around as they speak, giving up after a moment as Pearl seems content to cling onto them. “Honestly, it’s like none of them have ever had a drink before.”

“They're actually just like this ,” he stands, brushing himself down, trying not to feel too self-conscious about what he’s wearing. It’s not something he’d normally wear, too long and flowy for what he does as a job- too prone for getting caught on various instruments or for someone to grab at. He smooths it down, dropping the hem when he realises he’s begun to pick at it. “It gets worse, I promise.”

“Don't say something like that,” Cleo groans. “It’s bad enough as it is. I'm surprised no one’s vomited on the carpet yet.”

“And no one’s going to!” Grian yells. He pops up from somewhere, looking particularly affronted at the thought that someone might be sick on the carpet. “Do you know how hard it was to clean last time?”

“Yes,” Cleo mutters, far too quiet for Grian to hear and obviously just for him. “He complained about it to anyone that would listen the entire time.”

“And you didn't help him?” He asks, voice straining as he tries not to laugh at Pearl. She’s managed to slip from Cleo’s arm, her grip loosening as she becomes far more interested in something else. Something that only she can see, apparently.

“He was the one that vomited on it last time.”

Scott laughs at that, because it feels appropriate to do, and because he’s not sure where the sudden tension had come from. He’s definitely grateful now that it’s managed to disappear, leaving him feeling a little looser and his ability to breathe restored.

Cleo grins after a moment, sharp and containing something that Scott doesn't at all like, actually. And why was he feeling relaxed in the first place? This whole thing is clearly just a ploy to stress him out as much as possible-

He turns to look where she’s looking, making extremely awkward eye contact with Martyn from across the room.

And, now. Scott prides himself on being very well put together all of the time. He remains unflappable in the face of things that flap other people. As such, he likes to think that he can remain very calm, even when everything else in him is definitely not calm. He can at least look like he’s feeling calm.

He flushes, turning back around. “I don't suppose you have a drink? Something strong?”

“Of course,” Cleo indulges him, handing a drink over. He only sniffs at it once, gets an eye-wateringly strong smell of alcohol from it, and decides that it’s good enough. “Wouldn't be a good friend otherwise, huh? Bit of liquid courage before you go get your man.”

“He’s not my man.” He’s pretty sure he just inhaled some of the drink, burning his throat as he coughs, shoulders shaking with the force. “What the hell, Cleo? Why ?”

“Felt like it,” Cleo grins. “Go on , you've been hopelessly pining over him. We’d really love it if you two could get over yourselves and just kiss.”

“Ooh, yes ,” Pearl lurches back to life, swaying unsteadily on her feet as she stands. She grins, wide and unabashed. Scott can see the relation between her and Grian, suddenly, as her eyes glint with mischief. “Go ooon , you know you wanna.” She nudges at him, which is actually more of a shove, and it almost sends the alcohol of unknown origin all over him.

He stumbles over his own feet - he’s had barely any alcohol yet, definitely not enough for him to be feeling weak-kneed and about as steady as someone on ice skates as he walks over to Martyn.

“Hi,” he clears his throat, averting his eyes. He can feel his face warming, hoping that the dim lights are enough to cover what is probably the embarrassingly red shade of his face. “Haven't seen you in a bit.”

“Yeah!” Martyn nods, he’s smiling, a hand raising to rub at the back of his head. “I've been busy, too busy to come see you, sorry about that- I mean, I wanted to come see you! I just didn't have the time, end of term and all, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” He sips at the drink, “It’s fine, really, don't worry.”

(He ignores the way he had watched the empty seat- the seat he had begun to think of as Martyn’s seat. Which is ridiculous, really, because Cleo sits there. And Pix sits at the bar as well. But that seat was Martyn’s, for some stupid, ridiculous reason that Scott can't find it in himself to name.)

He looks up, then, catches Martyn’s eyes just as he looks at him. His cheeks are pink, flushed from the alcohol (and maybe something else? His traitorous mind murmurs) and his eyes shine oddly beneath the light. But not in a bad-odd way. But in a good way, because everything about Martyn is a little bit odd, but everything about him is good, as well. Good in a way that he finds himself struggling to grasp and understand.

The weight of his watch, sitting heavy in his pocket (always heavy, never light, constantly reminding him of its existence- but somehow heavier in this moment, as though something is twisting it, turning it, forcing it to dig into his heart) pulls him backwards. Pulls him out of the moment and he looks away again.

“I'm going outside,” he announces, though it’s far too quiet for anyone but him and one other to hear. “It’s too warm in here.” He pauses, looking back at Martyn again. He waits, one moment and then another. Allow himself a few extra seconds of hesitance for Martyn’s brain to catch up. The invitation sits between them, extended but unopened.

Martyn blinks. “Mind if I join you?”

He pretends to mull it over for a moment, eyes glancing downwards. Something about Martyn’s eyes are too heavy at the moment, the blue of them staring deep into him, as though they can see all the nasty little secrets he keeps squirrelled away in there. “Not at all.”

They walk as a pair back into the kitchen. Xisuma is gone, and his phone is too, charger left hanging from the port and off the counter. Scott tucks it back onto the countertop as Martyn wiggles the back door open, sliding it open.

The cold air rushes in, and Scott shivers, mulling it over for a moment longer before he steps outside. Frost-coated grass crunches beneath his feet, threatening to slip beneath his heel if he moves too fast.

He tips his drink back, finishing it off too quickly, but grateful for the warmth of it as it settles in his stomach and warms his throat. Martyn stomps his feet on the ground behind him, tucking himself deeper within his hoodie.

He sits down on the stone step, ignoring the way the cold seeps into him immediately. Ignores the way it makes his leg ache something fierce, the feeling springing back to life from where it had been soothed earlier by warmth and easiness.

Martyn sits beside him. Or, well. They sit against each other. They don't leave a gap between them, Martyn leaning against him and Scott leaning back into him, both of them holding the other up even though they aren't nearly drunk enough to need that yet.

Maybe getting drunk would be a good idea. Maybe he’d be lucky enough not to remember this in the morning if he fucks it up irreversibly. Maybe Martyn won't remember it either.

“Man,” Martyn laughs out into the cold air, breath condensing in front of him. “I'm way too drunk for this.”

“You're drunk?” He twists to face him, studying the man’s face and the flush on his cheeks - though that could just be the cold - and the dilation of his pupils. “I couldn't really tell.”

“Really?” Martyn sounds surprised. And a few of his letters stumble over each other, the word coming out half-slurred, and, alright, maybe he is a little drunk. Though Scott had failed to notice up until now.

“Really.” He confirms. “I thought you were as sober as me.”

“Doubt you're gonna be like that for much longer,” Martyn laughs. “You got Grian’s mystery mix from Cleo, right?”

“ That’s what that was?” He gasps out. He’s had Grian’s mystery mix once before, and it was enough to make him miserable for three days straight, as well as swearing off ever trying it again. “No, you're kidding, I've got work tomorrow.”

“I'm sure no-one will be able to tell the difference, sunshine, you’ll greet them with the same smile as always.”

Scott shoves his shoulder into Martyn’s, sways with the motion as Martyn returns the favour. Sunshine . He tries to put his mind off the nickname, even with the affection Martyn puts behind it there’s nothing else to it. Nothing else that it means, even if his brain nudges and tries to convince him otherwise.

Martyn taps at his knee, light enough that it doesn't hurt, only sending a dull pulse through the joint. Scott glares at him for it anyway, shuffling his legs a little further out of reach.

“Sorry,” Martyn glances up at him, eyes wide and apologetic. “Don't…know why I did that.”

“Yeah you do,” Scott replies easily. “Just ask, I'm not gonna bite.”

“It seems like everyone else knows all about you,” Martyn says, sounding almost like he’s complaining as he leans a little further into Scott. His chin digs into Scott’s shoulder. “And I'm left wondering about the mystery that is the mysterious barista.”

“That’s because everyone else does know all about me,” the weight of Martyn against his side is oddly comforting. “We all went to secondary together. And those that didn't were around during my brief stint at the uni.”

“I feel like I'm intruding on something.” Martyn’s exhales a sigh, and the warmth of it brushes over the exposed skin of Scott’s neck. He fights not to shiver at the feeling, tucking his hands a little closer to himself, leather creaking as he folds his hands into tight balls. “But…there’s just something about you. I feel like I'm being drawn in- not that I'm opposed to that!” Martyn leans back, if only so he can look Scott in the face. They're close like this, almost nose-to-nose, and he would have to be stupid not to notice the way Martyn glances down at his lips. 

He ignores it. Ignores the flip of his stomach and the stutter of his heart. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. (But it could, his brain murmurs.)

Martyn continues. “Just, tell me something about yourself. Anything. It could be your favourite colour, I don't care.”

“And what would I get in return?” He asks, only half-teasing.

“I would answer any question you asked.” Martyn says. He sounds unusually solemn, something so far from the normal Martyn that it brings Scott to a halt.

“Alright,” he leans back on his hands, accepting the fact that he’s going to be frozen completely after this. Whatever this is right now will be worth whatever aching pain he gets tomorrow. “Lay it on me.”

“What’s your favourite colour?” Martyn asks immediately.

“Seriously?” He laughs into the cold air. “I thought you’d be a little more creative with your first question, but my favourite colour?”

“I know a few things,” Martyn leans closer to him. “You gotta warm someone up before you sweep in with the heart-stopping questions.” This close he can almost feel the warmth radiating off of the other man. The way the alcohol makes his eyes half-lidded and heavy. He really is drunker than Scott first thought. “So, favourite colour?”

“Cyan, easy.” He answers. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Green.” Martyn glances down at himself. “Isn't it obvious?”

“I don't like to assume.”

“Alright.” Martyn thinks for a few moments, obviously considering his next question. “Do you have any family nearby?”

“No.” He answers immediately. “Moved away as soon as I turned eighteen, didn't look back.” It’s only half a lie. “You?”

Martyn’s eyes weigh heavy on him. Almost as heavy as the watch sewn into his breast pocket. He altered all of his clothes to have a small, invisible unless you're looking for it, pocket for him to keep the watch in.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “My mum lives nearby, take the train to go see her a few times every month.”

“That’s nice.” His words feel a little fuzzy, the world a little softer around the edges. A little more syrupy with how he moves through it.

“Your…leg,” Martyn says. “What’d you do to it?”

“Broke it,” he answers easily. It’s not something he’s ashamed of, but he doesn't mention it unless someone else brings it up, waiting to see if they even mention it. “I was a dumb kid and even more dumb when it came to handling the broken-ness of it. Didn't heal right, I don't think, but I never got it x-rayed after the cast came off, so…I dunno. It just hurts a lot.”

“Worse now?”

“You owe me two questions,” he says, then sighs. “Yeah, the cold doesn't help. Rain neither. Can feel the rain comin’ about an hour before it rolls in. Dunno why.”

“Lay your questions on me,” Martyn spreads his arms wide, as though asking Scott to aim for him.

“Ever break a bone?”

“No, but I did chop the end of my little finger off once,” he wiggles the finger for emphasis. “Got it sewn back on.”

“Why did you become a marine biologist? Or choose to study it?”

“I dunno,” Martyn’s head comes to a rest on his shoulder, hair tickling against his neck. It makes something warm bloom in Scott’s chest, something that he tries not to think too hard about in case it disappears. “I just realised, one day, that we didn't know much about the ocean, and that I wanted to be one of the people to find that stuff out.”

“Nice.”

“Why a barista?” Martyn asks. “You're not lacking in…anything really. So why choose a coffee shop?”

“Didn't know what else to do,” he shrugs. “I quit uni, left, and I was already working at the café. Grian was getting ready to leave, to focus more on his studies when it got harder and find another job more related to his field, and I was the perfect candidate for the next manager even if the boss hates me.”

“You're not the boss?” Martyn asks.

Scott lets the two questions in a row thing slide. “Nah, barely see him around, really. He just comes in every now and then to make sure everything’s runnin’ as it should be.”

“Huh.” Martyn says.

“Got a girlfriend?” He asks, before he can convince himself not to. Or even think through the question for longer than the words take to form in his brain.

Martyn shakes his head, hair brushing over his exposed skin. It shouldn't make him feel as charged as it does, electricity zipping down his spine and forcing him to sit up a little straighter. “Not since secondary school, but those were more just things for fun than anything serious.”

The silence stretches between them as Martyn looks for his next question. If Scott tilts his head just slightly to the side, aims his head just slightly downwards without jostling Martyn about too much, he can see the way his face scrunches as he thinks, brow furrowing as he stares at the frozen grass ahead of them.

“You ever dated anyone?”

“Jimmy,” he answers. “Two years before we realised that we preferred each other as friends.”

“And then he found Tango?”

“Yeah,” he smiles a little at the memory of Jimmy stumbling over his words as he attempted to describe Tango to him. “They're sweet together. They're good for each other.”

Martyn hums, the sound vibrating against his throat. He comes up empty, fishing for new questions, poking around in his brain for a few more moments as he tries to find something to ask Martyn. He comes up empty.

“I got nothing more for you,” he says. “All questions, gone. Evaporated directly outta my brain.”

“You know that’s a cause for concern, right?” Martyn asks, but there’s humour behind his words. “But…I’ve got one for you, if you’ll let me ask two in a row.”

“You've already done that.” He says. “Twice.”

“Have you ever thought about kissing someone?” Martyn asks, strangely breathless and pulling away from Scott slightly. It leaves him feeling bereft as the weight leaves him and more than a little cold as Martyn’s warmth goes with it. He turns to look at Martyn.

“Plenty of times.” He answers.

Martyn looks back up at him. And, maybe it’s terribly clichéd of him to say, but it’s almost like the stars themselves have been caught in his eyes; drowning in the deep abyss of water that seems to swim inside of Martyn’s eyes.

“And…me?” Martyn asks. “Have you ever thought about kissing me ?”

“I-” his breath stutters, catching in his throat as the taste of alcohol sours on his tongue. Martyn’s eyes are hazy as he looks at him, slightly unfocused from whatever it was that he drank earlier. “What?”

Martyn withdraws, looking unusually subdued. “Sorry, sorry, dumb question. Let’s just forget this ever happened, yeah?”

“No.” He replies. Martyn looks back up at him, eyes wide. The stars seem to shine brighter inside of them. “You're drunk. I'm drunk. We’re both drunk. This- this isn't the time to be talking about stuff like this.”

“That’s not a no,” Martyn says. He looks dangerously hopeful. Scott probably looks the same.

“Ask me in the morning.” He decides. “If you still mean it, ask me in the morning.”

“Alright. I’ll ask you in the morning.” Martyn looks at him. “Because I do mean it.”

Scott can only hope that he does, because he’s not sure how his heart would cope otherwise.

*

He’s not sure when he fell asleep, only that Grian announced it was a free-for-all and tossed a bunch of pillows and blankets everywhere.

Him and Martyn had gone back inside when the cold got too much and the alcohol wasn't keeping them warm anymore. Cleo watched him from the corner of the room, nursing her own drink, but Scott didn't go to her and she didn't come any closer.

He wakes to the sound of his own phone alarm, blaring at him at an uncomfortably early time. It’s accompanied by the groans of several people as he struggles to turn it off. “Sorry,” he apologises to the room, swinging his legs off of the sofa he managed to claim for himself. Jimmy and Tango are curled up on the sofa opposite him, only a tail and tuft of hair poking out from beneath the blanket identifying it as them.

He steps carefully over the people strewn over the floor, wincing every time he has to put a little too much weight on his leg, shifting carefully from one foot to the other with a muffled hiss.

Xisuma is sat in the kitchen, and his brother is as well, both of them chatting quietly over a small breakfast. He’s only met X’s brother a few times, not enough times to even know his name, but he gives him a friendly smile anyway when the cereal is pushed towards him.

He waits for longer than he should, knowing that he’ll have to set up as people start to drift into the café. But he waits anyway, because if he waits Martyn might be awake before he leaves. And it’s a dumb thing to wait for and to hope for, but he waits anyway, picking at his cereal half-heartedly, thanking Xisuma when he passes him a couple of paracetamol.

When he’s leaving, everyone else is stirring, a few people sitting and chatting quietly in groups. Either trying to remember what it was that happened the previous night or simply complaining about their headaches.

Martyn is scrolling on his phone, the last Scott sees. He glances up as Scott pauses in the doorway, smiles at him before looking back to his phone.

Scott pulls his shoes on and tries not to feel like his heart is splintering apart in his chest.

(He only slightly succeeds.)

Chapter Text

The café was quiet.

The customers inside were sitting contentedly at their own tables, each lost in their own worlds as they spoke quietly amongst each other. He didn't know what he expected, really, from a café that relied on the local student populace. And with several final deadlines yesterday, there wouldn't have been many people willing to get up this early, let alone make the trek to the café with the miserable weather outside.

Scott wishes that a few more people would come in, only so that he might have something to do.

Something to stare at other than the empty seats at the front bar, something to focus on other than the absence of someone that hasn't even been inside of the café for the past few days.

It shouldn't be bothering him as much as it is. He likes to think of himself as an incredibly composed person, someone that can roll with the blows that life chooses to deal him, even if it unbalances him for a few moments.

The sunlight, cold and pale, streams in through the windows at the front of the café. It pools just in front of the counter, spilling over the wooden tables and almost blinding Scott with how bright it is.

The light is always like this, early in the morning and during winter. It’s cold and bright, shining in through the windows and forcing him to squint through the light to try and smile at the customers. Normally, he’d have someone sitting at the front bar with him, though, whether that was Cleo or Pixl or even Martyn, recently. Normally, they’d be sat there, one or two or all of them, complaining about whatever early-morning classes they have as Scott contents himself with listening, occasionally contributing, and serving the customers.

Normally, on slow days like today, he’d lean over the counter, rest his arms against them, and join in the conversation. He’d smile, far easier than he normally does, and simply talk. Cleo would raise an eyebrow at him if he flirted with Martyn a little too obviously, hiding a smile behind their drink.

Normally, Pix would pretend he was actually doing his work, tapping away at his laptop, but infrequently enough that Scott, and anyone else bothering to look, would know that he’s not actually being productive, with how often he would pause to lean in and mutter some joke, or give some random fact that no-one actually understood why he knew, to their small group at the front of the café.

But it’s not a normal day.

It’s not a normal day and he’s stood, alone at the front of the café. Standing still behind the counter, hands folded neatly in front of himself as he tries not to think too much.

It’s not a normal day, because his head still hurts, despite the tablets he’d taken before he left Grian’s house this morning, and there’s a slight pulsing behind one of his eyes as he breathes slowly. He’s still not sure what it is that Grian puts in his mystery mix , but he vows (again) to never drink it again, because he still feels a little sick. Or that might just be the anxiety.

Because it’s not normal, as much as he’s trying to convince himself that it is; because he doesn't normally sit outside, in the cold, when he knows it’ll only make him hurt even more. He doesn't normally sit and let himself think, even if it’s only for a moment, that Martyn actually meant his words and that they weren't just the musings of a drunk person.

He’s not sure if he imagined the dismissal this morning, as Martyn barely glanced up from his phone. Barely looked towards him, hardly even spared him a smile, before he was looking away again. As though he didn't care. Like he didn't pay any mind to the words they shared last night.

He breathes out shakily, smiling as a customer comes to ask for a second drink. He smiles as best as he can, though it feels more like a grimace, and asks if she’d like anything else with that. She smiles politely back at him, her smile far more put-together than his own, and declines.

She taps her card against the machine, and he asks if she wants her receipt as he taps on the screen. He hands her receipt over, promising that her drink will be over in a minute. She smiles at him again, still well put-together, and returns to her table.

He drifts away, just slightly, as he makes the drink. He’s made this drink a thousand times before, will probably make it thousands more times, and he walks through the steps easily, thoughts spinning away from him. He can hardly grasp onto them long enough to string three words together, setting the drink down with a clink from the ceramic.

She doesn't even look up, murmuring a “thank you” that he pays very little mind to, returning behind the counter and trying not to favour his leg too heavily.

He drags the stool out from beneath the counter when he gets back, giving into his pride for a moment, if only because the sharp pain lancing through his leg is quickly becoming irritating and not at all worth it. It wasn't worth it when he sat outside, in subzero temperatures, and he knew that then. He knows it even better now.

He swings his other leg back and forth as he sits, hands curled loosely around the edge of his seat. One of the tables empties, chairs scraping back and breaking through the fog of his mind. He looks up, blinking twice to clear his eyes and watching as they leave.

He stands, dragging himself from his stool, and cleans their table. He returns the dirty mugs to the sink, leaving them for a moment as he returns to wipe the table down, cleaning it quickly before returning to his stool.

There aren't enough dirty mugs to justify running a full sink of water, for now, so he leaves them. He’ll get to them in a moment, once there’s a few more mugs or plates and it’s later in the day, and his brain feels less like it’s trying to burst out of his skull.

The bright morning light isn't helping, with how it streams through the windows and hits him directly in the eyes. But he can't just close his eyes and lay his head down- it would be unprofessional, and his boss hasn't come in recently, so he could visit any day now, checking up on him and making sure that the café he doesn't even care about is running to a “proper standard”.

He squints his eyes halfway shut, and he can almost see Martyn sat at the counter across from him, chin resting in one hand and balancing his head with the other as he stares down at whatever assignment he was struggling with at the minute.

The sunlight always hit his hair just right, seeming to illuminate it- turning it to gold right in front of Scott’s eyes, as cliché as that sounds. It’s almost embarrassing, the way he sounds like a teenager with his first crush, prone to waxing poetic about the smallest details.

Maybe he should have been a writer. His English teacher had always pushed for him to do that, nudging him along the path, even once he reiterated that he wasn't interested. He could, if he wanted. His grade in English was good enough to get him into most universities nearby- but it’s not something plausible.

He’d never been able to shake the habit of poeticising everything he comes across that snags his attention, only catching himself once he’s halfway through thinking about the exact green of the grass or the way the clouds hang heavy and low in the sky. It would be embarrassing, if any of his friends could read minds; thankfully, they cannot, and he hardly leaves any of his musings out there for someone to stumble across by accident.

The bell chimes, interrupting his train of thought. He looks up, curious to see who his next customer is.

He blinks once, then twice, staring at Martyn.

Martyn stares back at him, chest rising and falling quicker than usual, as though he’d run here. Or done something else to physically exert himself recently. His eyes are slightly wider than usual, hair falling over his face in a way that’s not at all like the usual, purposeful way it falls over his eyes.

His hair catches the sun just right, still. Lighting up behind him in hues of wheat-gold. The door swings shut behind him, slipping free from his fingers as he continues to stand in the threshold. The bell chimes once more as the door latches into place, and the small sound seems to break Martyn out of whatever had him frozen in place before.

Nobody even looks up as Martyn walks over to the counter, and Scott leans back on his stool when Martyn reaches him. He glances past Martyn, before looking back up at him, worrying his lip between his teeth, careful not to split the skin. He’s more than aware that Martyn could accuse him of…something. He’s not sure what, but he knows that he could definitely get him fired from his job if he was embarrassed enough about last night.

“I'm sorry,” Martyn says, the words spilling past his lips hurriedly as he continues to stare down at Scott. He slowly stands from his stool, not liking the height advantage Martyn has over him, however slight, when he’s sat. He freezes in place as the words percolate through his brain and process, leaving him staring at Martyn.

“Uh,” he says, intelligently.

“I'm sorry,” Martyn repeats, quieter this time, leaning over the counter. It puts them closer together, their faces scant inches apart. Martyn looks tired, probably as tired as he looks, the toll of staying up late and drinking more than is probably healthy. “I shouldn't have let you leave like that this morning, but I did anyway, and I feel like shit for that.”

“I- yeah,” he nods at that. “Just…do we really want to have this conversation here?” He asks, lowering his voice a little bit further when the girl from before looks over, slipping her headphones down to listen a little more intently. She looks away when Scott catches her eye. “It echoes.”

Martyn looks a little taken aback, before looking around and realising that the café is actually quite full, even if it’s really early in the morning and the only people here are those with the day off or a later shift, or something. Scott doesn't know anyone in here, aside from the one lady watching them intently from the booth beside the window. She comes in twice a week, the same days every week, and orders the same thing every time. He thinks she might be lonely, that she comes here for the conversations Jimmy normally engages her in and to people-watch.

“Yeah,” Martyn looks back at him. His eyes are still shining with something, hair lit up and framing his face, almost like a halo. He scoffs internally at the comparison, stuffing it away and hoping that he never thinks of it again. His face feels a little warm. “I just, I couldn't wait. I knew you were working, so, just, tell me to go away if this is pushing any boundaries, yeah? Because I know you can't exactly leave if you're uncomfortable, and that’s the last thing I want.”

“Come, uh, come to the back,” he steps back, swinging the counter up so Martyn can shuffle through. He can only pray that his boss doesn't choose today as the day he comes in to check that everything is running smoothly.

The girl from before gives him a judging look, eyes sweeping up and down Martyn- and, alright. Maybe not the best look, especially when his clothes are very obviously rumpled and look like they've already been worn. Absolutely not the best impression to be setting right now.

He glares at her, just because he can, and because it’s expected of him at this point. She stares right back at him, quirking an eyebrow judgmentally before she turns back to whatever the hell it was she was doing. He doesn't even know her.

The door swings shut behind him and Martyn, and then they're both stood in the break room-storage room fusion. The boxes are pushed into one corner, filled with the things that can afford to sit in there for another week until they have space for the stock out front.

“I'm sorry about last night,” Martyn says. His stomach drops a little at the words, the slight hope he’d managed to convince himself wasn't dangerous promptly shrivelling up and dying. “I didn't mean to get that drunk, I definitely wasn't sober when I had that conversation with you, and I don't think you were either.” He’s refusing to meet Scott’s eyes, even as he continues to stare at him. He should be burning a hole into the side of Martyn’s head with his stare, but Martyn remains unaffected.

“Ah, yeah,” he chokes out, feeling as though he’s speaking past a lump in his throat. He swallows, in an attempt to get rid of the feeling, but it remains lodged firmly in his throat. He feels like he can't breathe. “Neither of us were very sober then.”

Martyn scuffs his foot over the ground, back and forth, back and forth, before looking up and meeting Scott’s eyes. There’s something there, and these are the sorts of things that Scott prides himself on- he might not be great at the academic intelligence, though he’s decent enough, but he likes to think that he more than makes up for it with his emotional intelligence. Still, he finds himself scrambling for an answer that doesn't present itself when he looks into Martyn’s eyes, feeling slightly breathless and more than a little sick.

“I still meant it.” Martyn says. He refuses to look at Scott again. He feels almost weak in the knees with relief, the wave crashing over him so abruptly and with so much force that he’s almost carried away by it. He sways, a little, and his knee twinges with the motion. “I just…” he trails off, sucking in a large breath, “I just didn't want to keep thinking things over if you…didn't.”

“I- Martyn ,” he can't help it. He really can't. He sighs Martyn’s name, feeling the lump in his throat disappear as he swallows. His heart seems to replace it, seeming to lodge itself right in his throat with how hard it’s beating. “Oh my god .” He laughs a little, because he feels incredibly, incredibly stupid now. Like he’s overlooked everything.

“What?” Martyn looks worried now, hands clasped tightly together, tight enough that he can see the whites of his knuckles.

“We’re both idiots,” he manages, breathing it out between laughter.

“Hey!” Martyn puffs up, looking offended and relieved at the same time. “What do you mean?”

“You know all of our friends had bets on us, right?” He asks, instead. Martyn blinks at him. “They had a board in their kitchen, apparently, but they wiped it off before the party, so we couldn't see it. Xisuma told me.”

“They- what? ” Martyn sounds so genuinely confused that he can't help but laugh again, bending over slightly as relief sweeps over him again. “They bet on us? ”

“Did you expect anything less?” He asks.

“I- no! But I still would have appreciated being told . Why did Xisuma tell you?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, “guess he took pity on me.”

“Aw, man,” Martyn sighs, slumping against the opposite wall and tipping his head back. “I do feel like an idiot now- all of our friends knew and they didn't say anything?”

“We figured it out eventually,” he shrugs, going for it far more casually than he actually feels. He feels like he should be screaming, or something equally dramatic. Maybe sliding down the wall in a panic. He should probably be checking that there aren't any customers waiting outside. He finds that he doesn't actually care, when Martyn looks up.

“Guess we did,” Martyn says. He pushes himself off of the wall, taking one step closer. The break room isn't that big, and with that single step the distance between them is halved. Scott could reach out right now and grab him by his hoodie. He doesn't, looking at him from beneath his eyelashes as Martyn wavers. “Do you…have an answer to my question?”

Scott debates for a moment, continuing to watch Martyn from half-lidded eyes, leaning against the wall beside the door. He smiles, tilting his head to the side. “What question?” Martyn left him to stew in his emotions for a few hours, he can afford a few moments of floundering.

“You're seriously gonna make me ask?”

He considers it for a moment, before allowing his smile to spread a little wider, showing off his teeth as he looks up at Martyn. He expects a little surprise, maybe for Martyn to pull back as his teeth are revealed. He doesn't waver, continuing to stare down at him. “Yes,” he breathes, after a moment. He hardly needs to speak louder, with the distance between them even the slightest sound will be heard.

“Scott,” Martyn says, stepping closer, but not touching him, hands still hovering as he pushes closer, toeing the line between friendly closeness and…something else. “Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Yes , he thinks but doesn't say. He’s thought about it several times, so many times, over the past few weeks. Every time Martyn would smile at him, grinning in his stupidly infectious way; every time he would comment on Scott slipping something from a rude customer. Every time the sun would hit his hair just right and he’d light up the entire café. Scott wasn't sure how people could look away from him when he was like that.

Martyn’s still watching him, still waiting for his response. His hands still hover, close enough that Scott can feel the warmth of his skin, but not quite touching. Not until Scott says he can.

“More times than I can count,” he replies. Martyn flushes at that, blush rising high on his face, causing his ears to turn pink at the tips.

“Then,” Martyn says, “can I kiss you now?”

“Please,” he breathes, hands already reaching up to pull Martyn closer to himself, because he’s not certain he can deal with the almost touching for much longer without going entirely insane. “Martyn,” he says, voice embarrassingly soft as he hooks his hand around the back of Martyn’s neck, pulling them closer.

One of Martyn’s hands settles on his hip, pulling them flush against each other. The other raises to his face, pushing his hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear, and kisses him.

It’s chaste, just a simple brush of lips on lips. Martyn pulls back a moment later, eyes already blown wide, blushing like someone that’s just had their first kiss.

“Martyn,” he asks, a teasing lilt working its way into his voice. “Have you ever kissed someone before?”

“ Yes ,” Martyn hisses, face growing pinker with embarrassment. “Of course I have.”

“Have you ever kissed someone for longer than a moment?” He asks, he softens his voice, “I'm not making fun, I promise.”

“I- no,” Martyn’s eyes dart away, then back to him again. They drop to his lips, and Scott smiles at the silent admission. “It…I never felt the need to do more than that.”

“Can I kiss you again?” Scott asks.

Martyn nods slowly, still watching him. He smiles, tightening his grip on the back of Martyn’s neck and pulling him closer until he’s close enough to connect their lips again. Martyn goes easily enough, the hand still resting on his hip squeezing tighter for a moment before relaxing again.

Scott sways into Martyn, pulling him down as he brushes his tongue over Martyn’s lips. Martyn makes a small noise at the action, but he doesn't pull back, even as his lungs must begin to burn. Scott’s own lungs are burning, too, but he pushes further into the feeling, biting down on the very edge of Martyn’s lip.

Martyn pulls back with a gasp, eyes wide and pupils blown.

“Too much?” He asks, cradling the side of Martyn’s face in the palm of his hand. 

“I- no,” Martyn breathes out, still staring at Scott. It’s almost intense enough to make him cower away from it, but he pushes himself towards it instead, leaning further into Martyn, pressing them close together until his chest is resting against Martyn’s, close enough that he can hear the thump-thump-thump of his heart. “Just…unexpected.”

“In a good way?”

“The best way.” Martyn agrees, and then he’s kissing him again.

Martyn’s hand crawls into his hair, tugging at the strands there, lightly at first, then harder when it makes Scott bite his lips again, swiping his tongue over the spot a moment later to soothe it.

Martyn pulls back again, still staring at him with those wide eyes, pupils swallowing a lot of the colour in his eyes, making them look far darker than they actually are.

“Can I-” Martyn stutters off, out of breath and flushed, “Can I touch your hands?” He asks, after a few moments of catching his breath, staring down at Scott.

“Huh?” He pulls his hands back slightly at the question, flexing his fingers and listening to the way the leather creaks. Martyn reaches up to catch his wrist, holding it firmly but not tight, continuing to watch Scott.

“You can say no,” Martyn tells him. And his voice is sincere enough that Scott knows it to be true. He could say no and they could both move on; continuing kissing, if they wanted to. Even if Scott really needs to at least poke his head out and make sure that there’s no massive queue of customers awaiting his return.

“Why?” He asks instead. Because his hands feel sweaty, uncomfortable within the gloves, and taking them off doesn't seem like the worst decision in the world. He can think of several, far worse, decisions he could be making right now.

“Because…I want to see all of you,” Martyn says. “You're just- you're hiding your hands, and I don't know why. And everyone else seems to know, but I don't, and I want to tell you that it’s fine, but I can't, because I don't know .”

“And what if it isn't fine?” Scott asks. Because he has to. He has to. He’s worn gloves for the past four years, and no one’s ever asked him to take them off. Everyone’s just assumed that he’s wearing them for a reason, to hide something - and they're right - and they can't bear to be proven right . “What then?”

“Then we work past it,” Martyn says. “I don't know what to do with myself, Scott, you've driven me insane. I can hardly think of anything else; I've hardly been able to focus on my work, knowing that you're out there, somewhere, and I could be there with you if I wasn't working.”

“That’s silly,” he says. But he would be lying if he said he wasn't touched. It’s sweet, especially with the way Martyn smiles down at him.

“Please?” Martyn asks, and the last of his (admittedly very weak) resolve crumbles in the face of Martyn asking.

“You can't- you can't run away,” he says, even as he pulls his hand back, loosening the gloves. He can't remember the last time he took them off outside of sleeping, and even then he wears them to sleep in sometimes. Can hardly stand the sight of his hands himself.

He eases the leather off anyway, shivering as the air hits his skin and scales. He flexes his fingers, moving them around, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on Martyn. One, to watch his reaction, but two, because he cannot bear to look at his hands himself.

Something brushes over the back of his hand and he gasps, the small sound falling past his lips involuntarily. He shuts his eyes, keeps them squeezed shut and simply nods when Martyn asks if he’s alright.

“They're just…sensitive,” he manages, after a moment, once the feeling of gentle fingers on the back of his hand has eased. “I don't…I’m not used to someone touching them.”

“Oh.” Martyn says. He brushes a careful hand over the scales on Scott’s wrist again, before slowly trailing back up. He twists his wrist at the end, fits their hands together carefully, holding Scott’s hand carefully, as though it’s something to be protected.

“How can you,” he chokes out, breaking his silence when Martyn continues to hold his hand, looking completely unbothered. “How can you just hold my hand? You're not blind, are you?”

“Of course I'm not blind,” Martyn looks him in the eye. “I'm simply appreciating you as a whole, your hands are a part of you, how could I dislike them?”

“How can you just say something like that?” He can feel his face heating up, the way his fins press back against the sides of his head in embarrassment. “They're everything that people find disgusting about sirens. The only thing remaining to identify us as something else.”

“And Jimmy has the yellow feathers of a Canary,” Martyn says. “That identifies him as an omen of death, of misfortune, but everyone is friends with him still. Tango’s sclera is almost black, and I'm pretty sure we've all seen the depictions of demons like that, but Tango isn't a demon; I'm pretty sure he’s the furthest thing from a demon.”

“That,” he doesn't have a good argument against that, nothing to argue otherwise. “I guess.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I might care for you because you're just…you?” Martyn laughs. “At the risk of sounding cheesy, I don't think there’s much you could do to push me away now.”

Yes , he wants to say, yes it is hard to believe you. Because Martyn was doing what his family had chosen not to do. What his father and his brother had decided they couldn't deal with, couldn't stand seeing the reminder of his mother . Couldn't bear to see the resemblance between the two, when she had abandoned them so easily.

The weight of the watch in his pocket can attest to this. Its face cracked and broken, hands perpetually stuck in a time of the past. It speaks of a tipping point- a point of no return, something that he cannot, would not, return to, even if he was given the chance. He’s not sure he could face his brother again.

He doesn't say this, just sighs and rests his head against Martyn’s shoulder. And Martyn holds his hand.

The sound of the bell interrupts them, and his head jerks up, pulling his hand free from Martyn’s grip.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, realising that they're still stood in the break room. “Oh my god, Jimmy’s never gonna let me live this down.”

“What?”

“I abandoned the café to come kiss you in the break room- I make fun of Jimmy for doing that .”

Martyn stares at him, wide-eyed, for a moment. Then he laughs, the sound so loud compared to the quietness of before.

“I need to go,” he says, pulling his glove back on, fumbling to tighten it properly again and cover up the mess of scales that is his hand. “Oh my god, they're gonna make fun of me. They're gonna be horrible .”

“I'm sure it’ll be fine,” Martyn says, but he’s still laughing when Scott escapes the break room, still a little pink in the face. There’s only one customer waiting, and he doesn't look like he’s been stood there for too long, so Scott breathes a sigh of relief.

The girl from before is gone, leaving two empty mugs in her wake. The lady in the window booth gives him a small thumbs-up.

*

“How are you always right?” Jimmy complains, leaning over Grian’s shoulder, reading the message from Martyn. “It’s not fair, the universe is rigged against me.”

“Then you gotta stop betting, Timmy,” Grian nudges at him, shutting his phone off when Martyn’s texts devolve into nonsense. “If the universe is against you, you're never gonna win.”

“I thought for sure I would be right this time,” Jimmy slumps over the counter, ignoring Grian as he collects his spoils of war. He looks unbelievably smug- and really, they should ban him from betting ever, he seems to have made some kind of deal with Luck, with the way he keeps winning.

“There, there,” Tango pats him on the head, messing his hair up worse than it was before. “At least it wasn't as bad as-”

“If you bring up the Sheriff Incident one more time ,” Jimmy growls, “I might kill someone.”

“Did someone say Sheriff?” Grian spins on his heel, wearing a smug grin very reminiscent of a cat. “Lemme tell you, I have an entire folder dedicated…”

“Kill me,” Jimmy whispers to Tango. “Send my congratulations to Scott, and then kill me.”

“No can do, buddy,” Tango pats him on the head again. “I like you too much to do that.”