Chapter 3: a bastard named wilbur

While it wasn’t uncommon for customers at work to annoy Tommy, this new customer was somehow both ridiculously frustrating to deal with, while somehow also being the customer he’s had the most fun talking to in his entire time working at Puffy’s.

His shift at the cafe that day was the same as it always was: boring and tiring. Tommy’s left hand was bright red from where he’d burnt himself while trying to pour some coffee earlier, and while he’d been able to heal the burn easily enough, the regrown skin was still a bit raw to the touch. His eyes were heavy as he went through the motions of making a flat white, as he had been forced to take the midday shift instead of his usual closing shift when Foolish had begged him to switch shifts. Apparently he was meeting up with an old friend that day for lunch, and since Foolish was Puffy’s son, if he wanted a shift switch then he got it.

So here Tommy was, stuck on the midday shift when he usually spent this time lounging in his bed or vegging out on the couch with his roommates. He poured the milk over the coffee in his hand, sprinkling a dash of cinnamon on top before slamming a lid on top. He pushed the drink out on the counter calling out the name, and quickly turned back behind the counter to wipe down some milk he had spilled.

The door chimed as another customer came in. Thankfully the lunch rush had ended so there wasn’t a line, but Tommy still internally groaned as he forced himself to turn to the register and put on his Customer Service Smile.

“Welcome to The Cloudy Cafe, what can I get you?” He recited from memory, knowing he would’ve gotten chastised for sounding so dead inside if Puffy was here right now.

The customer in front of him was silent for a beat, and Tommy glanced up from the register to actually look at who was standing in front of him. The guy looked to be the epitome of a hipster in their early 20s—he had those wire-rimmed glasses you saw all over Pinterest boards, a mess of curly brown hair that reminded Tommy a bit of his own, and was wearing an obnoxiously yellow sweater.

And he was gaping at Tommy. Just, like, outright staring at him with his mouth slightly open.

“The fuck you looking at?” Tommy asked, frowning at the customer.

The guy blinked, as if having been zoned out, and quickly straightened up. “Oh shit, sorry about that. I thought, uh, you looked like someone I met,” the guy explained, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Sounds like a very great and handsome guy. Anyway, are you gonna order, or are you just gonna gape like a fish some more?” Tommy pushed, not having the patience to listen to a customer’s weird story right now.

The customer raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Tommy braced himself for the dreaded can I speak to your manager? It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d had to call Puffy because a customer wanted to complain about his ‘quality of service.’ But instead, after a beat of silence, the guy started to laugh.

“Do you always speak to customers that way?” The guy asked, grinning at him.

“When they’re being fucking annoying I do,” Tommy shot back, secretly relieved that the guy didn’t seem to be pissed.

“What counts as annoying?” The customer then questioned, smirking at Tommy.

“Trying to make stupid chit chat when I’m trying to do my job,” Tommy shot back with a flat stare. “Also gaping at me like I got something weird on my face instead of just saying your order.”

“Well, you have a little bit of lettuce in your teeth so you kind of do have something on your face,” the guy pointed out.

“Wait, shit, really?!” Tommy dug into his pocket under his apron to pull out his phone, trying to use the front camera as a mirror. The customer’s shit-eating grin never left his face as Tommy searched for the piece of lettuce, only remembering a moment too late that he’d had soup for his lunch break.

“You bastard!”

The guy wheezed out another laugh, leaning his elbows on the counter as his composure completely dissolved. Tommy scowled at him, struggling to hold back the urge to shove him away from the counter.

“I’m sorry, that was immature of me,” the guy apologized, although he was still fighting back giggles as he said it.

“You better fucking tip me for that, bitch,” Tommy snapped, pointing to the tip jar next to the register.

The guy wheezed out another laugh as he straightened up, immediately digging into his pocket and dropping a handful of cash in the tip jar. Tommy’s eyes widened, not having thought that would work.

“You know, that usually just makes customers ask for the manager so they can complain about me,” Tommy said, eyes still fixed on the tip jar.

“Do you get complaints a lot?” The guy asked.

“Kind of. I don’t see why though. I’m a fucking delight.”

This made the guy start laughing again, and Tommy had to fight the urge to laugh with him.

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” The guy commented after he caught his breath. He straightened back up and glanced to the menu, and Tommy suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be waiting for this guy to place his order. “Can I just get a medium quadruple shot latte?”

Tommy nodded, grabbing one of the medium cups and scribbling the order on the side. “I suppose if you want a heart attack then sure,” he shrugged, smiling a bit when he heard the guy huff in response. “What’s the name for the order?”

“Wilbur.”

Who the hell names their kid Wilbur these days? Tommy wondered as he wrote down the name on the cup. Surprisingly, he managed not to let this thought slip out of his mouth, and instead just typed the drink into the register and gave the customer his total.

“Thanks Tommy,” the guy said as he walked away from the register with a small wave.

Tommy blinked, briefly wondering how the guy knew his name, before remembering that he had a literal nametag on the front of his apron. Cursing to himself, Tommy set about making the drink.

He pulled the first shot from the espresso machine, watching as Wilbur settled down at an empty table next to the window. Reaching into his bag, Wilbur pulled out a rather expensive-looking laptop and started to type rapidly onto it, his eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the screen. Hopefully his glasses had blue light filters, otherwise his eyes were going to be wrecked.

“Quadruple shot latte for Wilbur,” Tommy called out after he put the lid on the drink, sliding it out onto the pickup and moving to wipe down the espresso machine.

Wilbur jumped up from his table and ran over to get the drink. He picked up the cup, pausing when he noticed the crudely drawn middle finger Tommy had put next to Wilbur’s name.

“How artistic,” Wilbur snorted as he took a sip of the drink.

“What can I say? I’m like fucking Mozart over here,” Tommy shot back with a smirk.

“You realize Mozart was a musician and not an artist, right?” Wilbur questioned, quirking an eyebrow at Tommy.

“No, because I’m not old and don’t remember it, unlike you.”

“Are you implying that I was alive when Mozart was?”

“Maybe. Certainly seem elderly enough.”

“Fuck off, I’m twenty-four.”

“Old bitch,” was all Tommy said in response.

Huffing out another laugh, Wilbur flipped Tommy off as he went back to his table and resumed whatever work he had on his laptop. Another customer came up to the register so Tommy had to go back to pretending that he liked his job, but he kept sparing glances at Wilbur whenever he got the chance. He wasn’t like most of the customers Tommy served. He was actually fun to talk to, and seemed to enjoy Tommy’s banter that was so tragically underappreciated in the customer service industry.

It’s not like Tommy thought he was cool or anything. Like, Wilbur was definitely going to kill himself with that many espresso shots. Not to mention, his name was Wilbur. Like the pig from Charlotte’s Web. That was, like, the definition of uncool.

A few hours passed. Tommy dealt with another rush, burning his hand a second time and barely restraining himself from letting loose a rather ungodly stream of curses that would make even a sailor flush. He steamed milk, pulled shots, ground beans, and blended way too many frappes. By the time he got a moment to breathe, he could see that it was almost the end of his shift, and nearly collapsed in relief.

It was only a few minutes before Foolish was supposed to show up to take over for him when Wilbur finally got up from his seat. He dropped his laptop back into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and dropped his cup in the trash can as he passed by the register.

Tommy expected him to just walk out of the shop like most customers did when they were finished with their work. But of course Wilbur couldn’t do that, and instead he stopped by the register again.

“I don’t care how much you tip me, I’m not giving you another quadruple shot latte today,” Tommy deadpanned without preamble. “Don’t wanna deal with an old man having a heart attack on the floor.”

“Wasn’t gonna ask for one,” Wilbur replied as he glanced up at the menu. “I’m heading out anyway. Just thought I’d get something for my brother.”

“Alright, what does he usually get?” Tommy asked.

Wilbur’s brows furrowed. “You see, that’s the tricky part. I have no idea what he usually gets from cafes.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Well, does he take his coffee black?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t think he’d want coffee this late. Plus, he’s more of a tea guy.” Wilbur paused, pursing his lips as he continued to skim the menu. “What kind of tea do you recommend?”

“Uh… London fog’s are pretty good?” Tommy shrugged, not used to getting asked for recommendations.

“That’s Earl Grey, right?” Tommy nodded, and Wilbur tapped his fingers against the counter. “Yeah, okay, I’ll have a medium London Fog. And maybe don’t draw a middle finger on it this time.”

Oh. Now that was a challenge.

“Sure thing,” Tommy replied as he rang up the order, giving Wilbur a saccharine smile.

Wilbur blinked a few times. “I have a feeling I’ve made a mistake.”

“You have.”

Before Wilbur could say anything else though, Tommy processed the order on the register and whirled around to grab a cup. He purposefully didn’t look at Wilbur as he scribbled onto the side of the cup, and kept his hand wrapped around the side of it as he made the familiar drink. Steamed milk, earl grey tea, and a splash of vanilla was all it took to make the drink, and within a minute Tommy was sliding the drink over to Wilbur.

“There you go,” Tommy grinned.

Narrowing his eyes, Wilbur lifted the cup up and spun it around in his hand, looking for whatever Tommy did to it. When he found Tommy’s message, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“‘Dear Wilbur’s Brother, you brother is a bitch and an old man. He also looks pretintious af. You should do something about that. Signed, The Biggest Barista Ever,’” Wilbur read out, sounding very dead inside as he did so. “You spelled pretentious wrong, by the way.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy smirked as he went back to rinsing out the container he used for the steamed milk. “Now get out of here before it gets cold. It’ll taste like shit then.”

“You should know I’m gonna be coming back here every day now just to bug the shit out of you while you work,” Wilbur threatened, although he was smiling as he said it.

“I’m taking that as a challenge to annoy you out of my cafe,” Tommy shot back, struggling to hide the laughter in his voice.

“Bring it on.” And with that, Wilbur turned and left the cafe, waving at Tommy on his way out. Tommy just flipped him off in return.

Midday shifts sucked ass. But Tommy had to admit, that was the most fun he’d had on shift in a while.

Technically, Wilbur broke his promise to show up every day to annoy him the first day after their meeting. In fact, Tommy didn’t see Wilbur in the cafe again for three days, and he tried to ignore the stabbing disappointment he felt when Wilbur didn’t show up.

But the fact that Tommy was feeling disappointed was stupid. Wilbur was just another customer, certainly not the first one Tommy had cracked jokes with. Sure, their banter was a lot more fun than any other time he’d fired shots at customers because Wilbur could dish it out just as much as he could take it, but that didn’t mean Tommy liked the guy or anything. It just made working customer service a slightly more tolerable version of hell.

But then, he showed up again.

It was only an hour into Tommy’s shift. He was back to his closing shifts, and was grateful for it. He worked much better later in the evening, when there were no nightmarish lunch rushes to deal with. It was a lot calmer, with the light from the setting sun bathing the inside of the cafe in golden light the color of egg yolk.

Tommy was moving through the motions like usual. His sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows as he drizzled caramel on the inside of a plastic cup. The whirring of the blender came to a halt as soon as he had put the caramel bottle down, and he flipped the lid up with his elbow before pouring the frappe into the cup.

With a puff of whipped cream and a lid snapped on top, Tommy yelled out the name and slid the drink onto the counter. He rinsed out the inside of the blender in the sink when he heard the door chime. Biting back a groan, Tommy glanced up, prepared to plaster his Customer Service Smile on his face once again.

Instead, when he met a pair of dark brown eyes, he had the urge to smile for real.

However, he squashed that urge down and covered it up with a scowl. Couldn’t have the bastard thinking Tommy was happy to see him, now could he?

“Oh great, you’re back again,” Tommy complained, rolling his eyes as he sauntered over to the register.

Wilbur was grinning widely at him. “Yup, sure am! I came here yesterday to see if you were working, but there was just a really buff dude working behind the counter instead. He was actually nice to me, which felt wrong.”

Oh. Shit. Wilbur had come to the cafe looking for Tommy earlier, but he’d come at the wrong time and gotten Foolish instead.

“Ah, you met Foolish then,” Tommy said, pushing his sleeves down to his wrists. “You see, he’s usually the one who works the afternoon shifts when we have rushes. I’m banished to the closing shifts, when we have the fewest customers so I don’t scare anyone off.”

“Now that would’ve been good to know,” Wilbur chuckled, shaking his head. “Though I don’t think I’d describe you as scary. You’re more like a… a feral raccoon you’d find eating out of the garbage, or maybe a possum with rabies.”

“It’s almost impossible for a possum to have rabies because of their low body temperature,” Tommy corrected him without missing a beat. “Also I’m not a fucking raccoon you stupid bitch. I’m the best barista in town!”

“Do you just know possum facts off the top of your head?” Wilbur questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.

Well, not exactly. Tubbo liked to watch nature documentaries about bees, so during the trio’s Netflix binges they frequented the documentary section of the site. While Tommy didn’t particularly care for bees, he liked animals in general, and would often get into arguments with Tubbo about which nature documentary they were going to watch.

“I just saw it in a documentary,” he answered, not mentioning how he’d specifically argued with Tubbo for fifteen minutes straight about the merits of watching a documentary about ‘garbage’ animals like possums and raccoons. Tommy thought they were very underappreciated creatures and wanted to learn more about them, while Tubbo thought they were gross. Ranboo ended up being the deciding factor, and of course he went with Tommy’s side because Tommy has the Best opinions and ideas. “Anyway, I’m not a raccoon, and I can be plenty scary if I want to be.”

“Oh really?” Wilbur looked doubtful. “You don’t look scary at all. If anything you look a bit like a goldfish.”

“A goldfish?!” Tommy clenched his hands into fists at his sides, sorely tempted to reach over the register and deck Wilbur in the face. Screw what he said about missing the guy, he was just a bastard through and through.

Wilbur snorted when he saw the indignation painted across Tommy’s face. “Okay, maybe that was a little far-”

“Order your drink, Wilbur,” Tommy cut him off, eyeing Wilbur carefully.

Now this made Wilbur visibly pale. “You’re going to do something to my drink.”

“What? Me? Never!” Tommy gasped in fake offense. “I would never sabotage a customer’s drink. Especially not after they just said I look like a goldfish.”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “If you spit in my drink I will get revenge.”

Tommy didn’t have to fake his disgusted expression. “What the fuck? That’s gross as shit. I was just gonna, like, give you decaf coffee instead of normal coffee.”

“Wow, such terrible revenge,” Wilbur drawled. “I wasn’t even going to get coffee today, so checkmate.”

Tommy snorted and rolled his eyes. “Well, get on with it then. Tell me what you want.”

“Just a medium hot chocolate for me,” Wilbur replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What are you, five?” Tommy snarked, even though he’d literally been sipping on a hot chocolate yesterday while he walked home from work.

Huffing but not replying to the dig, Wilbur was smiling as he dropped the money on the counter, adding a few extra bills to the tip jar as well.

Just like last time, Wilbur set himself up next to a window and pulled out that nice laptop again. He took his glasses out his pocket and leaned close to the screen again, his brows furrowing as he dove into his work.

In the end, Tommy did not sabotage Wilbur’s drink. It was only because Wilbur tipped him and for no other reason. It wasn’t like he was worried Wilbur wasn’t going to come back or anything. Tommy Innit was a delight, and Wilbur should be honored that a Big Man such as himself even deigned to be in Wilbur’s presence.

And from there, the routine continued. Now that Wilbur knew when Tommy’s shifts were, he showed up nearly every evening around the same time. Sometimes he would order hot chocolate, other times he would order tea, and once he’d ordered a black coffee. On that day, there had been heavy bags under his eyes and a harsh edge to his tone, although he didn’t use it on Tommy even when Tommy joked about how tired and old he looked.

Each time Wilbur showed up, Tommy would spend far too much time antagonizing the man and Wilbur would antagonize him right back. They would shoot barbs at one another, Tommy struggling to smother his laugh while Wilbur would full on wheeze while gripping the counter.

And maybe, just maybe, Wilbur slowly wormed his way into becoming one of Tommy’s favorite customers.