#auprilday1

Arthur looks at the menu on the board behind you. Lattes, macchiatos, iced Monin refreshers, mochas... Some of them he couldn't pronounce let alone figure out what they were supposed to be.

The place was a little hipster cafe he'd never normally go to, plants everywhere and reclaimed barnwood furniture, a little record shop in the back... He usually just went to the diner but they were closed today, a notice on the door citing some family matter. So, where else could he get his coffee in this small town?

"Uh... Well shit. Y'all sell just regular coffee?"

You laugh and nod.

"Yes, sir, we sell regular coffee." You pointed to the board behind him, and he turned to look at it. "Got Peruvian, Colombian, Sumatran–"

You cut yourself off when you saw the confused expression on his face, pressing your lips together tightly to avoid laughing again.

He turns back to face you, looking completely lost.

"Alright... What kinda coffee do you usually drink?"

"Coffee." He answers without a moment of hesitation. After you give him a raised, unimpressed eyebrow, though, he takes his hat off and runs a hand through his dark blonde hair, thinking.

"Uh... Folger's is what I drink at home," he grunted.

You nod once and turn to pour a steaming cup of the Colombian medium–roast. You hand it to him black—no cream, no sugar.

"I think this would work well for you..."

He looks at it skeptically like you did something to it before picking it up and sniffing it.

…Well. Smells like coffee, at least.

He takes a slow sip, letting the smooth, deep flavor sit in his mouth before swallowing. He looks down at the cup again, like he's contemplating a work of art rather than a hot brew of bean water.

Then he takes another sip, bigger this time. He looks at you, brows furrowing.

"This ain't coffee."

"I'm... Sorry? Is there something wrong with it?"

"No," he answers with a simple shake of his head.

"O-oh... Okay. So... Did you want–"

"This ain't coffee. Y'all got witches brewin' this in them machines of yours?"

Your brain almost short circuits as you try to figure out what he's trying to say is wrong with it.

"Coffee's supposed to be bitter. Supposed to bite ya a little… or at least slap ya in the face... It ain't supposed to taste like... this. I ain't supposed to like it."

As you realize what he means, you suddenly start laughing.

"Oh! Oh my gosh! You're funny, Mister, I'll say that."

A grin slowly spreads across Arthur's face, like making you laugh was the thing that put it there.

He sits down at the bar, holding his cup and taking another drink while you pull yourself together.

"What kinda black magic y'all got goin' on back there anyway?"

"Oh, gosh, nothing really. We do roast our own beans in house, and grind them ourselves of course, but that's it as far as our part goes," you explain as he looks around the place some more.

"Huh. No kiddin'... Didn't expect a place like– well– this... to be serving coffee that tastes like this. Shame I ain't tried it sooner."

"Yeah, a lot of people just see the fancy drinks. Which is fine, we do have a lot of them. But we do regular coffee too, and we're very picky about brands and quality."

After chatting for another moment, Arthur picks up the paper from the corner of the counter and sips his coffee as he reads it.

You start cleaning up the counters and putting things away, the breakfast rush now over and stocking for the rest of the day.

After a while the music playing off the speaker switches, some indie rock song ending and 'Folsom Prison Blues' by Johnny Cash starting to play.

You start humming along to the twangy rhythm of the guitar. Arthur looks up from the paper, slowly, first just because this song playing in this little hipster cafe was surprising to him, but then because you also clearly knew it. He didn't say anything, just watched as you moved around behind the counter and sang under your breath.

Once it's over, you turn and catch him watching you.

"Didn't think a place like this'd play Cash..." he said, the drawl lingering a little.

"We do play a lot of indie music, but we play a little bit of everything, really. There's a playlist on shuffle and all the workers add whatever music they want to it."

"I'm guessing that one was yours?"

"Yeah, it was..." then, taking the opportunity to tease him, "Why, you got a problem with it, cowboy?" you ask, grinning cheekily.

The corner of his lips twitch, just the hint of a smirk playing on them.

"Nope. No problem here. Good coffee, good music... Good company."

He raises his cup as he says it, then drinks the last of it, setting it down for you to take. He stands and heads to the cash register, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a twenty from his wallet.

"How much?"

You shake your head.

"Nope. That first one is on the house... Long as you promise you'll be coming back?"

He gives a slow nod, putting his wallet back in his back pocket.

"Alright, I'll be back, (miss/mister)..." he looks for a name tag but you aren't wearing one.

"(Y/n). And you, cowboy? You got a name?"

"Arthur. Arthur Morgan... Or cowboy works, if that's what you wanna call me."

He takes the twenty still in his hand and tosses it into the tip jar, your eyes widening just slightly.

He nods his head low and touches the brim of his hat.

"You have yourself a nice day now, (y/n). I'll be around."

You smile to yourself as you watch him leave, hoping he would be.