Can we just imagine how cute a Bluepulse Coffeeshop AU would be? Jaime works part time at a coffeeshop, but he can’t say he particularly enjoys fixing other people drinks. Sure, the place always smells like freshly steeped coffee and buttered pastries, but the customers are always in a hurry, and with the constant din of voices, he’s almost guaranteed to have a full-blown headache by closing time. Technically the shop is open until 9pm, but no one ever comes by after eight, so the floors are always swept early. He’s just getting ready to leave for the night, when the front bell chimes and a gangly, auburn haired teenager stumbles through the door. His feet are pointed in two different directions, as if he can’t decide where he wants to go next, and he fidgets even as he walks. ADHD, maybe?
"I’ll have a coffee," the teen says, propping his elbows against the countertop.
Jaime arches a questioning eyebrow, but accepts the handful of coins regardless. “What kind?”
"Uh, regular would be crash." That comes as a surprise. Most people have their minds set on ordering something with a fancy title that rolls off the tongue, or personalizing their order by specifying the low-fat-to-soy ratio. As if it really makes a difference. "Oh, and sugar. Lots of it."
"You sure you should be having coffee now?" Jaime asks, but he’s not really sure why he’s bothering to ask. The first rule he learned was that the customer is always right.
"Fast metabolism," the boy shrugs, and his long fingers begin to tap on the counter top.
"Do you parents know you’re out this late?"
"It’s only 8:30."
"Yeah, but you can’t be much older than, what, twelve?"
"I’m fourteen!" he sputters indignantly. When Jaime offers him his cup of coffee, he grabs it hastily, and ends up sloshing some over himself. Glaring, the teen makes a show of delving into his pocket for a while, before retrieving a single dime and putting it in the tip jar, before speed-walking out of the shop.
It was the first time Jaime had ever seen him step foot in the shop, but it definitely wasn’t the last. Jaime’s not sure how the guy learned the days and hours he worked, or how he figured out his first name, since all his nametag gave away was that his last name was Reyes, but he made sure to stop by every day.
"Hey, Jaime,” he grinned, emphasizing the name just to prove that he knew it. Jaime dutifully ignored him, already vexed by the complicated orders being thrown at him. By the time the auburn haired teen (Jaime really needed to learn what his name was) made it to the front of the line, Jaime was flustered and irritable. This time, he didn’t order a plain coffee. He ordered a caramel latte, instead, even going as far to specify the exact degrees he wanted it heated to and the ounces of milk.
Scowling, Jaime handed him his drink.
"Thanks, Jaime," he said sweetly.
"What’s your name?" Jaime asked with a sigh. His voice was nonchalant, but the teen grinned with satisfaction, his lips curling into a smile.
"Brat? Your parents named you Brat? What, were they psychic?"
Bart continued to frequent the coffeeshop, and each visit was even more annoying than the last. Jaime contemplated alerting the manager that Bart was disrupting the other customers—which was disputable, in all fairness—but his shockingly large appetite and messy eating was enough to Jaime want to leave.
"What’s it going to take for you to stop coming by?" he sighed eventually. Jaime felt like he’d just given up at what ever game he and Bart seemed to be playing, and Bart’s expression made it clear that he was the winner.
"Go on a date with me. Here. This time you pay for the coffee."
"My shift isn’t over until nine," Jaime protested, a warm flush spreading across his face, "and that’s when the shop closes."
"Great. Then we’ll have the place to ourselves."