last scattering

“Try a rough month.” You put the bills you’d been trying to count back in the register. There wasn’t enough, that much was obvious, and you weren’t in the mood to go on a coffee-slinging charm offensive.

“That so?” He grinned, the kind of grin that had probably gotten him out of three traffic stops and into someone's bed at least twice that you knew of. “Want me to guess what's eatin’ you, or you want to skip straight to tellin’ me to shut up?”

“Pick one. I've got customers.”

He glanced around. “There's hardly anyone else in here.”

“There's you. You count for double - as a problem, and as a customer.”

He laughed like that was the best thing he'd heard all week, head tipped back, easy, like nothing in the world could touch him. You hated how that laugh worked on you. You hated it so much because it worked. It always had.

“Y’know,” he started, “…most people, when I walk in smilin’, they smile back. It's like a reflex. Real involuntary.”

“I'm not most people.”

“No kiddin’.” He looked at you a second too long, the grin softening into something you didn't have a name for yet and didn't want one for. “Y’want a coffee? On me.”

“I own the place. The coffee's already on me.”

“Fine. I'll tip generously.” He pulled a chipped mug toward himself before you'd even reached for the pot. “So what's got you in such a mood? And don't say nothin’, your whole face is doin’ a thing.”

“My face isn't doing a thing.”

“Your face is doing a lotta things, actually.” He counted on his fingers, slow, like he had all day, because he probably did. “Mad eyebrows. Tight jaw. That cute little crease right here.” He pointed at his own forehead, right between the brows, completely unphased by the fact that you looked like you wanted to throw the coffee pot at him.

“Maybe I'm just tired of men who think flirting is a substitute for being useful?”

“Ow.” He pressed a hand to his chest like you'd actually wounded him, though the grin never left his face. “That's cold. I'm plenty useful.”

“Name one thing.”

“I make you laugh.”

“You make me want to scream into a pillow.”

“I mean, I bet I could...” He took the mug you finally poured, fingers brushing yours just long enough to be deliberate, and winked like he hadn't done it on purpose at all. “Same time tomorrow, princess?”

“Don't call me princess.”

"Wouldn't dream of it.” He was already at the door, already grinning over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, gorgeous.”

He clocks it easily, grinning at you as he approaches the counter which—this time—is far more crowded than it had been three days ago when he's graced you with his presence last.

"Seem a little better today," he observes, and you purse your lips, placing a mug in front of him, grabbing the pot that's been on the warmer long enough that it's probably just this side of burnt.

"Compared to what?" you ask, shaking your head when the older gentleman beside Gator signals to you for some more coffee.

"Uh... every other time I been in here?" Gator says, grabbing five creamer packets and tearing them open, not bothering to stir his coffee before he picks it up, sips it, grimaces, swallows it down, then beams at you. "Delicious. You sure know how t'make a pot'a coffee."

"Yeah?" you ask, dumping the dregs of the burnt pot into the trash bin and picking up the fresh pot, giving a generous mugful to Gator's neighbor.

"Yep. Thinkin'... it reflects yer soul 'r somethin'." You pause, putting the carafe back, and fix Gator with a look.

"That so?" It's half a challenge, because that wasn't a compliment considering how bitter the coffee you served him was.

But he only grins, nodding. "Definitely. I'm great at readin' people."

"I beg to differ."

"Excuse me," calls one of your other customers—you'd wasted too much time gabbing with Gator.

"Go on. I'll be here when yer done," Gator says, waving you off and lifting his mug to his face. "Damn, that'd grow some hair on my chest if I didn't already have it, y'know?" He nudges the older man next to him, chuckling. The older man does not respond in kind.

You leave him, help your other guests, and when you finally retake your place behind the counter, sure enough, he's still there. You just barely get your mouth open before he's speaking to you again.

"Doin' anything later?"

"Plenty," you say. Short, to the point.

"Such as?"

You sigh. "Grocery shopping. Laundry. Ordering takeout. Falling asleep watching reruns of Criminal Minds and spilling a bottle of wine on my couch."

Gator spins the mug around on the counter. You can tell by how easily he's moving it, that it's empty. He drank the whole damn cup.

"If ya had some company, y'probably'd manage not ta spill the wine."

"Throwing another person in the mix would really just derail the whole... routine I've spent years cultivating," you say, but it doesn't deter him.

"Of fuckin' up yer couch?"

"Exactly," you say, very nearly cracking a smile. You manage to rein it in to a smirk. "You do get me."

"'Fraid I do, princess," Gator says, only calling you the nickname now that no one else is in earshot.

"Don't call me that," you say.

“Try a rough month.” You put the bills you’d been trying to count back in the register. There wasn’t enough, that much was obvious, and you weren’t in the mood to go on a coffee-slinging charm offensive.

“That so?” He grinned, the kind of grin that had probably gotten him out of three traffic stops and into someone's bed at least twice that you knew of. “Want me to guess what's eatin’ you, or you want to skip straight to tellin’ me to shut up?”

“Pick one. I've got customers.”

He glanced around. “There's hardly anyone else in here.”

“There's you. You count for double - as a problem, and as a customer.”

He laughed like that was the best thing he'd heard all week, head tipped back, easy, like nothing in the world could touch him. You hated how that laugh worked on you. You hated it so much because it worked. It always had.

“Y’know,” he started, “…most people, when I walk in smilin’, they smile back. It's like a reflex. Real involuntary.”

“I'm not most people.”

“No kiddin’.” He looked at you a second too long, the grin softening into something you didn't have a name for yet and didn't want one for. “Y’want a coffee? On me.”

“I own the place. The coffee's already on me.”

“Fine. I'll tip generously.” He pulled a chipped mug toward himself before you'd even reached for the pot. “So what's got you in such a mood? And don't say nothin’, your whole face is doin’ a thing.”

“My face isn't doing a thing.”

“Your face is doing a lotta things, actually.” He counted on his fingers, slow, like he had all day, because he probably did. “Mad eyebrows. Tight jaw. That cute little crease right here.” He pointed at his own forehead, right between the brows, completely unphased by the fact that you looked like you wanted to throw the coffee pot at him.

“Maybe I'm just tired of men who think flirting is a substitute for being useful?”

“Ow.” He pressed a hand to his chest like you'd actually wounded him, though the grin never left his face. “That's cold. I'm plenty useful.”

“Name one thing.”

“I make you laugh.”

“You make me want to scream into a pillow.”

“I mean, I bet I could...” He took the mug you finally poured, fingers brushing yours just long enough to be deliberate, and winked like he hadn't done it on purpose at all. “Same time tomorrow, princess?”

“Don't call me princess.”

"Wouldn't dream of it.” He was already at the door, already grinning over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, gorgeous.”