So (7th of August) I got a PM:

azab: can I make a OP request?
CR: sbdbicndensnagt! YES! 3
azab: i want a marco X ace story an AU ace as a waiter
CR: O.O ... :D I love you.
azab: I love you too

:::makes babies:::

PS: in British slang, a poof means a gay man.
All language will be in English, and I mean proper English, i.e; British English.
Even ass, which will be arse.

He fumbled with the spotless clean cloth, muttering curses under his breath. How was he supposed to tie this stupid thing? Someone had explained it to him earlier, but it was all gibberish on his ears. Tie it once around the waist, then double fold? What? Argh, he sighed, agitated. He stared at the item of clothing. Men don't wear aprons! Aprons are for poofs and girls! (Well, not really for girls anyway, he wasn't a sexist pig like that.) And maids in cafes! The piece of clothing slackened and fell off his waist, straight after he thought he'd accomplished tying it together. He wrestled more savagely with the thing. Bloody, fucking, hell— ...

His boss passed through the back and spotted him, rather alarmed as it appeared that his employee was having a wrestling match with his clothing.

"Ace-boy! What on earth are you doing?!" he cried, rushing over to the aid of the apron. Employees, after all, were more easily replaced than staff uniforms.

"It's the apron," Ace whined. "it doesn't seem to do as I want it to."

He'd been working at Swan Cafe for a week now. At first he'd been a trainee, so that his boss could evaluate if he wanted him to work at his cafe. He'd done most of the work indoors, just wearing standard black clothing with the cafe's logo on it (a swirly white "S" on his right breast) and a name tag, stating he was new. But now that he was actually a waiter at the cafe, (which he was thrilled about, seeing as now he was making more than the minimum wage) he had to wear the proper clothing, and well, ... He'd never really been good at clothes. (one of the reasons why he's been kicked out of other jobs because he keeps "forgetting" to put his shirt on)

His boss, Bon Clay, (also referred to as "Bon-chan") tuts disapprovingly. He'd always thought that his boss was a bit of a weirdo, with his stark contrasting make-up and long battering eyelashes. He eyed his boss' pursed lips with a hint of disapproval. Today the lipstick colour was an exotic Parisian red, or so he'd been amorously told by some of the other, more fashion centred, staff members. It slightly disgusted him. But then again he'd done so much, much, worse than publicly applying make-up. Like the time he'd set fire to Smoker's car. Or that time he goaded his younger brother into adding ammonia into his chemistry project, which resulted in a miniature indoor lab explosion. Ace really had to change the way he role modelled himself to the younger generation, seeing as how he was having such a stellar effect on his little brother's friends. Like how the last time his brother's friends had nearly caused his landlady to kick him out because they'd rampaged his dorm. Luckily for him the landlady had a soft spot for flexing biceps and slicked abdominal muscles, because he'd opened the door topless, effectively cutting her throwing him out of the dorm process off. It kinda helped that her knocking fist had nearly touched his chest, because it flustered her so amazingly well that her threat had been cut short. He just wasn't allowed to bring his brother's friends into his dorm anymore, which, he thought, was considerably better than having to live in another dorm entirely.

His boss stops him from tearing the wretched thing to shreds. He wags a finger at the younger man. "That's not our work morale is it now, Ace-boy?" He sighs and nods his head; he really needs this job. Even if the cafe he's working at is slightly queer ... With the inner cafe and back door being separated by a black curtain with golden lining, acting as two giant double doors, staff toilets heading off to the left while the kitchen led off to the right and downstairs, a dumb waiter situated next to the phone stall. The glimmering pristine white marble floor reflected his own predicament back to him. Well, at least it pays the rent.

The clothing item of mental torture was gently prised from his hands. Ace gazed up at his tall boss, black eyes questioning. His shoulders are grasped and he's pivoted on the spot, with his back to his boss. His boss is too fast for him to stop him from doing what he did next. The apron is settled softly against his hips, the cord going around the back, suddenly pulled incredibly tight on his body, and as his boss' frontside (and somewhat muscular chest) shoves against his backside he can't stop the surprised squeak escape him. The string is then crossed around his front again and then (the pressure goes away from his back) tied in a small double bow knot around the back. Ace is sure his whole head is bright red. He can practically feel the flames on his face.

Bon Clay pulls back to admire him and the craftsmanship on his employee. "There," he coos, pulling facial expressions of pure delight at him, contorting his radical face-paint. The two pink filled circles on his cheeks stretched as his face split into an enormous puckering of his lips. "you're all ready now. Off you go, Ace-boy,"

Bon-chan pats his arse a couple of times, eyes admiring, and sends him off, face flaming red and dignity and pride sunken under national sea levels.

Bon Clay had ways of making you succeed which made you want to have failed alone miserably instead.

Trying to clear his mind of his recent humiliation, Ace grabs a tray from the kitchens and walks towards the terrace. Today the serving of customers sat at the terrace falls into his shift, and the staff had just chilled off the lunchtime rush. He could take it easy at the moment, until the next rush hour at night, where the cafe would be serenaded with couples on dates and hungry families going out to the movies. (not to mention the secret mistresses, and boy, had he had an eyeful of them. Middle aged men with younger women, grossly kissing in public and looking for familiar faces before spiriting their cheating arses away. Believe it or not, he even had a regular lesbian couple who ate their dishes with pleasurable vigour visit and ask for his waitressing.)

There are scant few scattered people sat on the terrace, and as he counts them, he sees that about seven of the ten were already being served by his employees. He spots a lone customer lounging in the sun, laid back in his chair. It's a table for two and the other chair was filled with the customer's personal items and jacket.

He walks (more like power-storms, since a valuable customer under his service could be lost) over before any of the waiters or waitresses could claim him and gently places a menu down onto the table. While his customer, a blonde man slightly older than him with a puzzling haircut, roamed the contents of the list, Ace flashed a "paws off, bitches" to the other colleagues, who scowl at him in return.

"I think I'll have a glass of lemonade, please," the man said. Ace jolted slightly, surprised by the clarity in the man's voice, how soft it was. He felt his cheeks start to warm and so graciously bowed his head, thanked his customer, and sped out of there.

Bon-chan makes a smooth comment about how his working policy doesn't permit his employees to fall in love with the customers, but if Ace did it'd make a great love story and Bon-chan would back him up. All the way.

Ace swears and bustles his booty to the kitchens, swarming with shouting and bits of stray food and easily angered chefs. He calls out for a lemonade, and has to hastily dodge a shoe aimed for his head. "Drinks are served at the bar, green sprout!" a cook yells at him, shoving him back out the double doors.

Ace feels bright red humiliation creep up on his face, and tries to walk to the bar with as much bravado as he can muster. The bartender, a tall, thin man who always wore shapely tailored suits, smiled apologetically at him. He'd heard.

"I'm sorry about Patty, he can be a bit of a dickhead from time to time," he said, words smooth and heavy at the same time. A smoker's voice that didn't grate out each fourth word in a gravelly tone. Somewhat fitting, for him, surprising and elegant and a touch rough.

Ace propped his elbow on the polished surface of the counter, a faint reflection showing through dark marble, and sat on one of the stools. "Yeah, thanks Sanji. I'm still not really used to this stuff. I'd rather be a car mechanic; shirtless and getting dirty and being serenaded by sexy girls — than working at a restaurant."

Sanji barks a laugh, and his eyes flick towards the kitchen doors, his fingers twitching. Ace knows that he'd rather be in there busting serious arse and making seventeen different types of soup that'd take him four days to make. Sanji is, after all, the runner up for sous chef. Unfortunately, he's stuck doing shifts for the bar in between juggling his culinary career and spends his time longingly staring at the double doors when he's not in the kitchen, and chatting up pretty girls. And Sanji has a very acquired taste. And speaking of acquired taste, . . .

Oh, his customer.

"Uh, Sanji," Ace calls softly, face scrunched up, checking his notepad. (That thing is his God and is worshipped as God, Bon Clay being of slightly lower Godlyness rank.) "One glass of lemonade, please."

Sanji smiles, then reaches into the see-through fridge behind him and grabs a glass bottle, pouring the lime yellow liquid into a plain glass, decorating the delicate rim with a cut lemon. Ace thanks him, puts it on his tray, and heads back outside.

The sunlight nearly blinds him, so he has to squint as he adjusts to the light, and heads towards his customer, tray held aloft. He gently places the drink down, smiles at the man. "Thanks," he says, and smiles back.

(He's bathed in sunlight and it's amplifying the lightness of his hair, how soft and downy it looks from that angle, almost like Sabo's, but— different. He seems like he could fit right in at an advert for summer holiday paradises and great coffee at terrace restaurants.)

He sees his favourite couple of customers make their way to their usual spot, slightly off on the corner of the terrace near the side-wall, sectioning their property with another shop, just under the shade. He excuses himself (barely noticed by his customer as he stares at his drink in wonder, most likely surprised by how good it tastes) and walks towards them, plastering on a darling lovely smile, greeting his two favourite ladies, tucking their chairs in for them and making idle chat. (He, he, another table of swooning customers claimed by Ace, the notorious microwave exploder and out of dorm kicker.) (Smooth moves, boy.)

The ladies belong to a special community group that Bon Clay religiously attended before he took up the job of running a restaurant, and are fellow believers of the way of fishnet tights and stockings, and as members of Emporio Ivankov's group, get special discounts at the Swan Cafe.

Rule # 2 :
30% discount to members of the Okama Paradise.

(The plus side to Bon Clay's huge discount is that most of the members of Iva's group wholeheartedly embrace extravagance and extremes, and thus gorge themselves a hefty sum, with or without the discount in place.)

Ace's boss adores them so much that he'll often risk his neck by coming out of his office to chat with any of the Okama members, many the aftermath of loud gossiping and the exchange of make-up. Sadly though, Zeff, the chef, feels that by Bon-chan's dawdling that his pension is at risk and often ends up booting the man back to his office. Which in turn ends up with a cranky, kitchen-deprived Sanji yelling at the pair of them from the safety of the bar, which in turn ends up with half of the cooks in the kitchen coming out to start up a restaurant-division war between the boss, the waiters, Sanji and the cooks.

Ace has only witnessed it once, but he's been told by the other waiters and waitresses that the last time (before Ace started as a trainee) the division war had happened, someone (Ace had a hunch that it was Patty, the burly and uncomfortably feminine-looking cook) had chucked a live lobster through the room and the wriggling red creature had landed in some unfortunate soul's lap. That, and a poor waitress had been harassed by some of the clientele about their work ethics, which had upset Bon-chan so much he'd nearly been moved to tears.

Thus, Unwritten Rule # 3 :
Division wars are to be restricted to the kitchen and the back door.

The consequences of not following through with the unwritten rule?

— The Boss will flip a shit.

"Had a nice day, ladies?" Ace asked, a certain fondness in his tone.

The women; named Ann and Koki respectively, both had the same sort of tolerant and gentle aura that Ace appreciated in women.

Ann, a tall, stocky woman with short jet black ringlets, had once been mistaken for one of Ace's siblings and had nearly been shooed out of the restaurant by an irritable Patty. (The chef still had a bone to pick with Ace after he'd seen how much he ate during his lunch break.) Ann's appetite wasn't as big as her counterpart's though, as Koki seemed to have an addiction to anything chocolate and biscuit related. That, and Ann was not a D. and thus did not possess a stomach with a bottomless pit. Koki, an energetic adult teenager with light green hair that was so long it nearly sweeped her thighs, tried making out that she possessed said bottomless stomach, and always ate her full with much clamour and smacking of lips.

Ann smiles, her face lighting up, and opens her mouth to speak. "Ye—"

Koki leans over, her eyes bright and her voice speeding, her mouth skidding and her words stuttering in her excitement to speak. "— Yes! Oh we've had so much fun today, Ace! Oop-ps, sorry, I meant Ace-san, but, uh. Yeah!" her little tan face exploded with little rays of sunshine again as she recovered from her stumble. "We went and watched Avida-san's special burlesque show yesterday! Oh it was wonderful, Ace-san—"

A napkin puts Koki's speech to an abrupt halt, and her wide eyes as she tries talking around said napkin was a sight to behold for everyone.

Ann, slightly put off and crabby, frowns and turns to Ace, who just stands there, biting his cheek to try and keep a straight face. She tucks a flyaway black ringlet behind her ear and clears her throat. Opposite her, Koki silently removes the napkin and folds it on the table, mood slightly dejected; like a kicked animal.

"We've had a nice day, what about you?" She says, and Ace has to flush a bit at her words. A girl asking how his day had gone! Unfortunately Ace didn't have a chance in hell with her, seeing as Rule 4# is that you're not allowed to hook up with any of the customers, and that she was also taken by the woman sitting opposite her. So yeah.

Ace scratched his elbow. "Oh, alright. I haven't really gotten the hang of some of the things here though." He says, thinking of the cooks laughing at him when he went to the kitchen instead of the bar for drinks, or how Bon-chan inadvertently made love to his backside this morning when he couldn't put his apron-thingy on the right way. "I'm okay though," He chuckles.

While he lets Koki and Ann mull over what they wanted to order, he's flagged down by one of his least favourite customers; a fat man with a titanium jaw transplant who went by the name of Wapol.

The man had decided to target Ace ever since he first laid eyes on him, and had continued to make his life sour throughout his training and official employment. He greeted Ace with emasculating nicknames and truly humiliating stories. He'd complained loudly several times and had even roused the cooks' tempers when he once claimed to have found hair in his food. He'd treated Ace like shit and today wasn't any different. He'd made very specific orders that Ace knew wasn't on the menu, had then changed his mind half a dozen times, and had told the waiter to then go and reheat it for him because it wasn't cooked enough. By the time that he had left Ace was just about ready to paint the walls red with his blood, and Ann and Koki had looked rather trepidatious throughout the meal as Wapol clamoured loudly.

Ace manages to serve another two customers without exploding, (but he's sure that it's going to happen soon, anyway) and decides that he should check up on his blonde customer who'd ordered a lemonade and a little batch of pastries.

His apron nearly snags against a chair he was passing by, and he hastily tugs the thing, grumbling about the stupidity of aprons and that they're only made for porn and looking professional. He reaches his customer, about to ask if he wanted anything else, and if everything was satisfactory. But the customer opened his mouth to speak, and Ace's clicked shut on command.

"That's not an apron," he said.

"Well what's it then supposed to be called?" he snapped back rather crassly. Oops, he was starting to lose his cool. He needed this job. His dignity and pride as a man (Hell, even that of a fucking pirate) could wait. His pay date couldn't.

The customer frowned, but didn't reply.

He felt annoyance bubble up. Soon he was going to start gnashing his teeth. "So it isan apron(!)" he cursed silently under his breath, picking up his empty lemonade glass, the cool surface pleasing to touch. He carefully placed it on the metal tray, keeping one eye on the customer.

Stupid motherfucking poof apron, what a shitty job, argh ...

"So does this make you gay?" the customer asked innocently. Ack! He'd heard some of the stuff he'd said! (he even had the gall to smirk at him, as if this was funny!) This was worse than the time that Sabo had convinced Luffy to "boil" an egg in the microwave! And that wasn't even remotely funny! (he refused to acknowledge the fact that his blonde brother had made his little brother explode egg yolk and shells all over his old flat.) (Hence the fact that he now lived in a dorm.)

He turned to look fully at his customer, shocked. He was gaping at him. He was reminded of his little lesbian couple eating at their usual spot a little ways away. "No!" he said, a little too quickly.

Ace could feel his cheeks burn as his customer gave him a secretive, knowing little smile, black eyes twinkling.

He reverently wishes that his boss won't suggest what else that look could be good for, as Ace can already feel a swooning tug on his heartstrings.

"Thanks for the meal," he says, humbly, and Ace is blown away by his kindness, having put up with Wapol's torturous bossing about for half an hour. "I'll have the check now, please."

Ace jerks slightly. "Uh. Yes. I'll get it now, sir."

He enters the restaurant and is shot a curious and equally confused look by Sanji, who swapped shifts with another waitress and was in the process of walking to the kitchen when he spotted Ace. "Uh, something wrong with your face, man?" Sanji asks as Ace rings up his customer's orders and types it into a computer next to the kitchen entrance.

"No,"

Sanji falters slightly. "Well, uh, your face, —" he motions with his hands, pointing around his own face. "— it's kind of red."

"Oh."

Ace rips the bill from the little printer and folds it neatly onto a tiny tray.

"Yeah."

"It's kinda hot out." he lies.

Sanji raises a hand, a sort of farewell, the other pressed against the kitchen's double doors, and enters. "See you."

The rest of the day is normal; his customer pays, Ann and Koki gossip about the blonde man and talk about fishnet tights (Bon-chan is drawn to them like a magnet and is promptly pulled back to his office by a fiery waitress who wasn't afraid to lose her job), Ace serves other customers, etc, etc...

He goes home and remembers that secretive little smile and too bright hair and perfect dining adverts and that warm, soft "Thank you." Or the way that their fingers touched slightly as his customer gave him a nice tip, a tiny twinkle in his eyes.