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John.
There is a rhythm to life on a military base, and even though John Reese has traded that life for a corner coffee shop in New York by now, he still enjoys his daily routines.
He gets up when it’s still dark outside and goes for his morning run through the empty streets of the neighborhood. John enjoys the quiet this early in the morning: The crisp air, the rhythmic sound of his feet hitting the ground.
When he gets back, he makes coffee and walks downstairs to the shop, to turn on the ovens. He fills up the coffee grinders, the scent of the roasted beans filling his nose.
John enjoys this part of his day best:
When he is all by himself in the small bakery, kneading dough with his hands, mixing sugar and eggs and cinnamon, making the first batch of cupcakes or brownies with his hands and arms covered in flour.
The sun is almost coming up by now, there is a faint orange glow outside and the streetlamps flicker. John can hear the sound of the doors being unlocked from the outside.
“I see you didn’t go with my “Your barista suggests: Take your hipster drink orders somewhere else, this isn’t Starbucks” - idea?” Sameen calls from the counter.
John smiles. He wipes his hands on his apron, puts two still warm slices of the walnut bread he’s been experimenting with on a plate and takes it with him when he goes to greet her.
The coffee shop is made up of the counter, a collection of scattered tables with mismatched chairs and a few comfortable armchairs stuck between.
On slow days, John uses the record player in the corner instead of the sound system, and lets the sound of his scratchy vinyl fill the room.
Sameen finishes tying her black apron behind her back and grabs the plate greedily.
“Morning, Shaw,” John says, smirking. “And no, you can’t write on the chalkboard with the daily specials, you’re scaring off the customers.”
Sameen shrugs, chewing with her mouth open.
“We couldn’t get rid of most of our regulars if we chased them out with a broom. Lionel and Carter spend every lunch break here, I’m pretty sure that Leon guy runs some kind of small crime syndicate from his loveseat in the corner, and let’s not forget the English department -“
“The university is in walking distance, we’re bound to get some customers that work there,” John says in a neutral tone, wiping down the counter.
He can feel his heartbeat picking up, and makes a point to think about new recipes instead. The last time Prof. Finch came in, he was eyeing the little bags of butterscotch candy they sell at the cash register, maybe he can do something with that.
Sameen pops a chunk of walnut bread into her mouth, grinning.
“Sure, it’s only a coincidence that they need to get their coffee fix here of all places every day like clockwork, when there is virtually no other place that sells coffee around the entire campus -“
“Pretty sure there’s about three or four, Sameen,” John answers distractedly, frowning at the glass case that holds their baked goods and approximating what he will need to replace soon.
“My point exactly,” Sameen says, gathering her hair into a ponytail.
“Are we going to open the door at some point?” John asks, rubbing his face.
It’s way too early to deal with Shaw being her usual self.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Sameen says, walking away to where a line has already formed in front of the door.
John disappears into the bakery. Mondays.
--
Nathan.
“Large Sencha Green Tea and a Butterscotch cupcake?”
Harold reaches for the paper cup before stopping himself, looking around to see if another customer placed a similar order.
“I didn’t actually order a cupcake, you must have that confused,” he says with a frown.
“The cupcake is on the house, actually,” John-the-barista says with a thousand-watt smile, handing over the paper bag. “I’m trying some new recipes, so customer feedback is very appreciated. And since you’ve been a regular for quite some time… ”
John shrugs, meanwhile busying himself with the next orders, emptying small silver cups of espresso into white porcelain mugs steaming with milk and foam.
Next to him, a pretty woman with an angry facial expression is at the cash register, handing out change and calling out orders.
Harold takes the bag along with his tea and eyes John suspiciously.
“This place is closest to the university, or at least closest among the places that cater to my colleague’s snobby coffee preferences.”
John’s face falls a little. Nathan sighs.
“Words can hurt, you know,” he says, before taking a sip of his Sumatra Special Blend. He makes a satisfied little noise.
“You brought your own coffee grinder into the break room at some point, I don’t see why you have to go out to buy coffee every day, anyway,” Harold mutters, placing a plastic lid on his cup.
Nathan opens his mouth to say something, but catches John’s petrified expression behind the counter and changes his mind. He takes another sip.
“I like to indulge every now and then,” Nathan says, instead of I keep dragging you here so you will notice what a giant crush the absurdly gorgeous barista has on you.
“Ugh, people are the worst,” the angry woman groans, slamming one of the cabinet doors shut with more force than necessary. “If you don’t hire at least one or two more people to fend off the rush hour, I quit.”
“You’re hiring?” Root asks, trying to balance a huge stack of midterm-papers, one travel cup and a white paper bag with two cinnamon rolls in her arms.
The angry woman turns around and appraises her: Purple strands of hair, huge black glasses, combat boots.
“Do you know how to make coffee?” She asks.
“I work for Har-- Prof. Finch, I basically live off that stuff,” Root says.
Harold raises an eyebrow at her.
“No offense,” she adds quickly.
“I am glad you find the workload satisfying. I could think of ways to make it more of a challenge, in case you’re bored. Maybe expand the syllabus a little, think of a few more papers that would need grading -“
“It’s fine, really,” Root squeaks.
“Good enough for me at this point,” the angry woman says, finds an application under the counter and hands it to her before turning around to the next customer with a pained expression that is probably supposed to be a smile.
Meanwhile, Harold has opened the paper bag and taken a bite of the cupcake nestled inside, soft dough and salted caramel frosting on top.
He makes a very undignified noise, apparently before he can stop himself.
“This is… quite extraordinary, in fact,” he says, turning back to John.
The smile that spreads over John’s lips looks like it might split his face in half.
Harold raises a finger to his mouth to lick off some of the caramel that is sticking to it, and John barely avoids a painful accident involving steaming milk.
Nathan sighs again. He seems to do that a lot lately, he thinks.
Poor guy, falling for Harold Finch should come with its own how-to manual, including a chapter on how most of the time Harold is not only the smartest, but also the most oblivious person in any given room.
--
Root.
“So then the guy is like, making some completely absurd point about The Trial, all “It’s basically a short story blown out of proportion, and Kafka makes the same point over and over, a novel is too demanding in scope to limit it to only one topic, bla bla bla”,” Root says, purple strands of hair falling into her face where she is bending down to pour foam onto the prepared cups.
“I have no clue what that means, but it sounds dumb,” Sameen says.“Double espresso, one Vanilla Latte with soy milk, one Café Latte to go, and one of those… pumpkin thingies that John hates.”
Root chuckles.
“It’s called a Pumpkin Spice Latte and people love it,” she says, whirling around to fill the orders. “Anyway, dude should have known better than to challenge Prof. Finch on Kafka, is what I’m saying. You can only walk away from that discussion looking like a complete idiot.”
John appears from the bakery.
He looks at the long line of people as if he’s searching for somebody, and then sighs quietly.
Why he would own a coffee shop when he so obviously prefers being on his own in the back is beyond her. (When she asked Sameen once, she had simply shrugged and said “He likes feeding people, I guess”.)
“We were just talking about your English professor crush,” Sameen says.
The tips of John’s ears turn a little pink.
“He’s not my English professor, and I don’t have a crush.”
“You have a crush on Prof. Finch?” Root calls over, and then winces.
Maybe she should have subdued her voice a little.
“I do not,” John hisses, as much emotion as she’s ever seen from him.
“They solve the crossword together on Saturday mornings,” Sameen says in a dramatic stage whisper.
John shoots her a glance that could turn milk sour.
“Wait, Prof. Finch comes here on the weekend? To solve crossword puzzles?”
“You,” John says, between clenched teeth, pointing at both of them, “will never work a shift together again if I can help it.”
He retreats to his sanctuary, probably to passive-aggressively knead some dough.
After they have served the last customer in line, Root leans close to Sameen.
“Okay, tell me everything,” she whispers, putting her chin in her hands.
There is some cholocate powder on her face from dusting the Caffè Mocha earlier, and Root carefully wipes it away from her cheek with her thumb.
“You had…,” Root starts, and Sameen says “Thanks,” really quietly and then clears her throat.
“This has been going on for half a year,” Sameen says, “Prof. Finch shows up on Saturdays with a book and a newspaper or a stack of papers to grade, has his tea and some kind of pastry, and if it’s a slow day, John sits down with him and talks. Like a real person, I mean, in sentences with more than three words. It’s amazing, I didn’t know he could do that.”
“I always suspected that Prof. Ingram and Prof. Finch were, you know.”
Root makes a convoluted gesture with her hand.
“Fucking?” Sameen asks, amused.
Root rolls her eyes at her.
“Involved. But he must actually care if he spends his precious Saturdays here, he almost threw a fit once when there was some kind of workshop that was scheduled for the weekend -“
“Well that, or he was pissed because he wanted to spend his Saturday with our tall, dark and brooding pastry chef here,” Sameen offers. “I wish they would just get on with it already, pining John is not a fun boss at all. And all we ever get to hear on the weekend is his gloomy vinyl collection. I swear I even heard Joni Mitchell at some point,” she adds darkly.
“We need to do something about this,” Root mutters, staring at the chalkboard that advertises the daily special.
She snaps her fingers.
“I think I know just the thing.”
--
Harold.
Harold enjoys his daily routines. After a week spent arguing with freshmen over the symbolism in Asimov’s writing - they were mostly wrong - and challenging Nathan on every single point of his latest publication - he was astonishingly wrong -, he is looking forward to spending the morning at the coffee shop.
At first, he had resented Nathan’s coffee snobbery enough to complain every minute of the way, but he has to admit that the tea blends are nice, and the owner - John - is utterly talented when it comes to any kind of baked goods.
Also, surprisingly, he doesn’t mind the company - John has turned out to be rather observant and intelligent, and… well. Georgeous, obviously, with a smile that could power the entire Upper East Side if converted into electricity. It’s not like someone like him would ever look at a bug-eyed professor like Harold twice, but still.
It’s an indulgence, and Harold feels like he has deserved one or two of those after teaching Introduction to European Literature, or, as Nathan refers to it: “A lecture hall filled with sixty people who compulsively need to point out that they have read Ulysses in every single comment that they make.”
It’s nearly eight a.m., a good time on a Saturday to find a comfortable spot, and still plenty of time before the lunch crowd rushes in.
Only today, Sameen is greeting him at the door, fussing with the chairs and tables outside.
“A little cold to sit outside, isn’t it?” Harold asks.
Bear sits down by his feet, waiting patiently.
Sameen shrugs. She is wearing a leather bracelet that looks suspiciously like the one on Root’s wrist. Ah, well. That explains why Miss Groves has been so slow with the work on the Dickens papers for his advanced class, she was otherwise occupied.
Harold makes a mental note to give her an afternoon off sometime.
“Just taking precautions, Prof. Finch,” Sameen says, brushing her hair out of her face.
“Hey, Bear,” she says, kneeling down to pet him and slip him a treat from the little pocket in her apron.
“On the house,” Sameen says. “He’s a regular, too.”
Harold opens the door and nearly walks into the chalkboard with the daily specials.
He almost passes it by - as much as he dislikes the stagnation of habit, his order is usually the same -, before he realizes what it says:
Today your barista is:
1) Hella fucking gay
2) Desperately single
3) Pretty obviously crushing on you
For your drink today we recommend:
… you give him your number.
Harold blinks. The sign is facing away from the counter, and he recognizes Root’s cursive from the notes she writes in the margins of papers with a red pen.
Behind the counter, John is pouring hot water into a porcelain cup, apparently unaware of the day’s very unique special offer.
“One large Sencha Green Tea coming right up,” John calls out, smiling.
Root, who has been sorting change into the register, lets it snap shut and passes Harold on the way out.
“I’m taking my break, John,” she calls, taking off her apron.
John frowns. “I’m pretty sure Sameen is already - Root?”
Harold grabs her by the arm.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“Do you know why Kafka was so sad and morbid all of the time?” Root asks.
“He was a very troubled man who had a myriad of issues with his father, was incapable of intimacy and most likely clinically depressed?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. But he was also really alone and only wrote sad letters all the time and probably never went on a date.”
Harold opens his mouth.
“Oh god, don’t correct me on this, I don’t care if Kafka ever went on a date, it was an allegory. And don’t correct me on the use of those, either,” she adds, quickly, and then winks at him.
“You deserve to have some fun, too.”
She opens the door and walks outside, where Sameen is giving a couple of customers that are coming closer a rather threatening look.
“We’re closed,” Harold hears her say in a grave tone.
Root links her arm through Sameen’s and leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth. Sameen rolls her eyes but pulls her closer anyway.
Harold swallows and walks to the counter.
--
John.
“Root is usually a very disciplined worker, I’m not sure what the two have to hash out back there,” John says, oblivious. “I uh, made some fresh croissants today, or blueberry tart if-“
“I have been told that I have been acting, well, Kafkaesque,” Prof. Finch says without preamble.
Bear whines softly before lying down on the floor.
John, who was in the process of handing over the mug of tea, places it on the counter carefully and tilts his head.
“Okay.”
“Oh, I - it’s a reference to Franz Kafka, his work is often considered surreal and quite menacing and distressing in nature, but in this case it refers more to his private life, I’d assume, so the expression -“
“I know who Franz Kafka is,” John says mildly.
“Of course you do,” Prof. Finch mutters, sounding half put-upon and half proud.
“Read The Metamorphosis once. The guy really wasn’t fond of cockroaches.”
Prof. Finch laughs, a low chuckle that makes John’s stomach twist pleasantly.
“I’ll try the croissants, I guess,” Prof. Finch says. “You have been pointing out that the place on 6th uses too much butter forever now, I’d like to see how yours turned out.”
“You’ll like them,” John says confidently.
He gets a breakfast basket with butter, jam and honey ready and puts it on the counter before placing two croissants of his latest batch on a plate.
“It’s surprisingly calm even for a Saturday,” John mutters, counting out the change and handing it back together with the recipe.
Prof. Finch turns back to the door, licking his lips thoughtfully.
He produces a pen from his pocket and writes something down.
“Would you like something else?” John asks, hoping to draw out the conversation before Prof. Finch leaves for his usual corner and opens his book.
“You should ask your employees about the daily special,” Prof. Finch says cryptically, and hands back the recipe.
John is confused for a moment, but he takes it, their hands brushing in mid-air. John swallows at the spark of contact and turns it around.
It’s a string of numbers. It’s --
“My phone number,” Prof. Finch says softly.
“You don’t - I’m sorry, it’s a nice gesture, and I really…”
John feels a surge of vertigo. He wants to accept it, he wants to call and talk to Finch someplace where they don’t have a coffee shop counter between them, but he also knows who he is, who he was.
“You don’t know who I am,” John says, with a sad smile. You don’t know who I was. People like me don’t get stories like these.
“I recognize, Mr. Reese, that there's a disparity between how much I know about you and how much you know about me. I’d like to try to close that gap as quickly as possible.”
Finch’s eyes are kind behind his glasses.
“Root has been talking to Sameen, and told me what little she knows about your past. I’m sorry about intruding like that, but I was, well. Curious. I know about the work you used to do for the government. I know about the doubts you came to have about that work. I have seen you here, hiding away from the world, much like I… let’s say, I’m a very private person. I rarely connect to people, and I never imagined that I might get a second chance to, well.”
He nods at the receipt in John’s hands.
“You should call me. If you want,” Prof. Finch says. “Thank you for the tea.”
Then he takes his tray and retreats into his corner, Bear trotting along next to him, and a moment later the door swings open, the coffee shop buzzing with life again.
--
Three months later
Sameen.
“You’re not going to fail,” Sameen says. “And stop drinking coffee.”
Root is bent over the table closest to the counter, downing espresso shots with alarming speed, post-it’s fluttering everywhere where she is paging through her notes.
“I know nothing about Russian literature,” she groans. “Why did I even take this class in the first place.”
“You know more about Russian literature than half of the class and also the TA,” Sameen says. “Hey, Frankie, Harper! Less talking, more working!”
“The TA is an idiot,” Root mutters.
Frankie saunters through the door, leaning over the counter to flash a grin at the next customer.
“Hello, gorgeous, what can I get for you today?”
“I can’t believe John left us in charge of this place,” Harper says, eating a cinnamon roll. “He really mellowed out lately.”
“Getting laid on the regular will do that to you,” Sameen says, giving Root a meaningful glance.
Root grins a little.
“Can I get more coffee?” She asks.
“Absolutely not,” Sameen and Frankie say in unison.
--
Harold.
John’s apartment is in the same building as the coffee shop, which has its perks:
Like the fact that John must have snuck downstairs early in the morning to make cinnamon rolls and brownies and raisin bread and brought back enough for an indulgent breakfast.
Harold wakes up with the smell of fresh pastries and coffee wafting over from the kitchen, and sighs into the pillow, content.
Bear is curled up on his pillow, still asleep. They’ll take him for a walk later, maybe go to the park so Bear can run around and play.
It’s almost a routine: A cone of ice cream, a chess match, sitting on a bench in the shade and watching Bear with the other dogs on the large fields of grass.
The bedroom windows are open, it’s a few days of comfortable warmth before the heat wave hits the city, and Harold stretches out on the covers when John comes back.
“I hope you didn’t show up downstairs like that,” Harold says, smiling.
John is a little fuzzy around the edges before Harold remembers to find his glasses and put them on. Ah, yes.
John smiles, that slow, sexy smile that Harold got to see so many times during the last weeks, and in various stages of undress. Right now, John is only wearing his boxers, his hair still wet from showering.
“Why, you think I’d scare off the customers?”
John leans down to kiss him, sweet and sure, and Harold smiles against his mouth.
“I fear you’d never get rid of them.”
John laughs, the skin around his eyes crinkling.
“Good thing I only care about you,” John says, his tone so startlingly earnest that it takes Harold’s breath away, even after all of this time. “I made breakfast.”
“Hmmh,” Harold says, thoughtfully stroking up John’s arms. “Can breakfast wait for a moment?”
“That depends on what you’re planning to do instead,” John replies, but he lets Harold pull him down to the bed, catching his weight on his arms and nuzzling Harold’s throat.
“That’s what I call customer service,” Harold mutters, and then gasps when John kisses his way down his body.
“Well, this isn’t Starbucks,” John says, grinning up at him, and Harold slides his hand through John’s dark hair, inhales the scent of pastries and coffee and cinnamon and home.
-- fin