Vash recounts his beginnings in America, and a chance encounter with an attractive stranger.

...xXx…

There is no place for emotion in a job.

At least, that's what Vash used to think. Over the course of four years working at The Café Raring, despite his initial intentions, the man had accumulated a small, loyal group of people that he would call friends, even family. Rare, to be sure.

The Café Raring was a cozy little café located in the middle of a moderately sized American city, founded by a Swedish immigrant in tribute to his spouse. With a classic brick and fireplace aesthetic, the café sold specialty sweets and coffee from around the world, and made it a point to be very inclusive with its menu options. One could order a cup of java to go, or they could settle down in a booth with lunch and a slice of pie, and finish their novel, if they so chose to do.

Berwald, the owner, was an formidable, stoic wall of a Swede, and Vash soon discovered that he was one of the kindest men he'd met since moving to America. He was more than fair with customers and his employees, if firm at times, and ran a tight ship. Vash respected him immensely. Berwald also made the best damn pastries he'd ever tasted in his life.

Vash, being an immigrant himself, albeit from Switzerland, hadn't expected to feel so welcome in a foreign country.

He'd been homeless for the first week of living in America, unbeknownst to his sister—thank God. Lilli was safely moved into her dorm, unaware that her brother hadn't gotten an apartment yet to stay in like he said he had while she began her first year at university. The Swiss man had spent her entire orientation week sleeping in bus stations or parks, going from business to business to apply for jobs, and he soon would find out that trying to get hired in America with broken English was a very delicate affair. Depending on what part of town he was in, he'd either be ignored, shooed away, or met with even more broken English of a completely different origin.

Then he'd walked into the café and was just about hired on the spot.

All but shaking in his boots and over sized duffle coat, the only coat he'd owned at the time, being interviewed by the tall Swede had been a stressful endeavor. Vash stumbled over every other word, trying to sit up to his full height and come across as anything other than completely desperate.

Only a few minutes in, Berwald had raised a hand to stop the slew of skewered words from streaming out of his mouth, and got up to head behind the counters and into the kitchen. Vash had ducked his head and grit his teeth as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, resigning himself to rejection. Ashamed and angry at himself for ruining yet another opportunity simply because he couldn't learn a language fast enough. He knew three damn languages already, yet he couldn't find a use for them in this hell of a city.

Then a mug of hot coffee and a bowl of steamy stew was set in front of him. Looking up in shock as Berwald sat back down in front of him, Vash swiftly began to try and convey the universal, "I can't pay for this," despite the fact that his stomach was protesting his protest. The Swedish man only gestured at the food with a nod, stern blue eyes leaving no room for argument.

Only mildly despising himself, he eagerly dug into the offered food. It had been the first actual meal he'd had since he'd gotten off his plane, having subsisted on mostly cheap street pretzels and wiener dogs since his arrival days before. While he'd eaten, Berwald had asked him a few more questions here and there, mostly pertaining to his language gap, discerning which words he did and did not know. Vash had done his best to answer them between mouthfuls of delicious stew.

Not long after, the Swede called over a gentleman from the entrance of the shop. Vash looked over the lofty, blond-haired, blue-eyed man with a mixture of both curiosity and trepidation. He finished eating his meal while the two men quietly went back and forth for a moment, before the new arrival turned to him with a smile as asked him, "Do you speak French?" in said language.

Vash had nearly dropped his spoon in surprise, his response being a very relieved, "Yes! Yes, I speak French! A-And German, and Italian."

The man's smile only sweetened and he nodded to Berwald as he sat in the booth next to the Swede across from him.

"I'm Matthew, and it's very nice to meet you," the man said in a soft voice, his French oddly accented. It was still more or less the same as Vash recognized it. The other reached over the table to shake his hand. "Berwald tells me you're from Switzerland, yes? What is your preferred language, if I may ask?"

"Vash," the Swiss replied, returning the handshake. "Ah, German, usually, but I'm fluent in all three. It's English that I'm still getting the hang of."

Matthew laughed lightly. The other two men spoke a few words to each other that Vash only partially understood before looking to him again.

"All Berwald wants to know," Matthew began, holding back a playful eyeroll, "is if you can make a cup of coffee."

Vash had, at the time, been very confused and very nervous. "Of course," he answered almost like a question. He crossed his arms self consciously and leaned forward onto the table. "I wouldn't be applying to a coffee shop if I couldn't. I can also cook," he added quickly.

Matthew relayed his answer to the taller Swede with a bit of a chuckle. Berwald only nodded and mumbled a few words, which the other translated back to him as, "What can you cook?"

Vash didn't even hesitate.

"Anything."

And that was how he'd been hired to work at The Café Raring.

That interview had been one of the best things to ever happen to him.

It was soon revealed that Matthew also worked at the café as one of the pastry chefs, and the man—whom he found out was Canadian and that was the reason for his queerly accented French—was a great help in the months to come.

Aside from helping him communicate with customers and his fellow coworkers, Matthew had offered him a place to stay. The man's brother had recently moved out of their shared apartment and he had been about to place an ad for another roommate. The blond instead allowed Vash to take the spot right away after their first meeting when Vash had accidentally let it slip that he didn't have a place to stay yet. The Canadian's face had morphed into almost comical horror and he, ignoring any objections, essentially corralled Vash into agreeing to live with him.

The Swiss was normally more careful about moving in with a stranger after only one day of knowing them, but right then his morality had absolutely no problem with the idea. He was more grateful to sleep on something other than a cold, hard bench. And, indeed, also having an entire room to himself was a welcome bonus, too.

Little did he know at the time that Matthew would end up becoming one of his closest friends, both at work and where he would soon call home.

Remarkably, Berwald's husband became the Swiss man's English instructor. Tino, a short, homey looking Finnish man, had been introduced to him after his very first shift by the Swede. He was an interpreter for local organizations and law enforcement, who also took on private clients from time to time.

Despite not having the income for lessons, Tino had agreed to tutor him pro bono on behalf of Berwald and his own adamantly stated sense of philanthropy.

For months after every shift Vash studied under the Finn. Tino taught him from his native German, of which he was entirely grateful. He found himself picking up English much easier with Tino than trying to do so by himself via the internet back in Bern.

It took him just short of six months to learn basic fluency, enough to get by in most day-to-day situations.

Before his first year in America was over he was completely fluent.

Subsequently, Vash had gotten close to all who worked in the café. Berwald preferred to hire other foreigners, mostly those who were struggling to catch their footing in a new land, and college students from the nearby university. That meant the mix of staff at The Café Raring became quite the eclectic hodgepodge of outsiders.

Like Angelique, a genuinely excitable young lady with dark skin and curls, and also Matthew's adopted younger sister. She was enrolled at the college under a marketing major, and was always coming up with new ideas for promoting the coffee shop online. Angelique also worked as a part-time waitress and had been more than encouraging while Vash had gone through his training, and the two of them found a nice rhythm working together fairly soon.

Lilli and her would often hang out around town together, have sleepovers, and talk about their various school studies and recent movies and the such. Between his sister's newfound fashion merchandising skills and Angelique's out of the box marketing schemes, he was confident that the two women were planning to take over the fashion industry.

Vash was simply glad that Lilli had found a friend, as he had.

Toris, the main manager and lunch chef, took awhile to warm up to, but that was mostly due to their joint reclusive natures. The Swiss' default demeanor was calm and quiet, and he enjoyed the same sentiment from the lanky brunet man. The man had moved to America from Lithuania over a decade ago as an acquaintance of Berwald, and the man helped him settle down to a new life. He mostly helped the Swede make the majority of the wonderful food they served every day. Not to mention, he was almost too kind to customers, and always had an ear open if any one of the staff needed solace. They got along relatively well.

There were a few others that, though he wasn't as close with as Matthew or Berwald, he certainly appreciated their company during the day-to-day.

Berwald had hired one of his cousins on as a waiter not long after Vash joined the staff. Emil was his name, and he was a taller, pale-haired young man around his sister's and Angelique's age. He also attended the university as a marine biology major, and although he was mostly subdued if anyone got him talking about animals he wouldn't stop for some time.

Then there were Bazil and Kagan. An odd pair, those two. Both worked as baristas, handling the alcohol section of the shop. Bazil had dark, ashy hair and kept his head down most of the time. He had a thick Eastern European accent that Vash had spent three whole months trying to discern before giving up and just asked. Slovakia. He honestly would have never guessed it.

Bazil usually only spoke when spoken to, and even then it was really only to Kagan—though why the shy young man decided he liked to converse only with the loud, red-headed Irishman of the group, Vash didn't know. They worked closely in sync, never missing a beat of flair to entertain the customers with their opposite-yet-so-similar skill.

Lastly was Mae, a barista and assistant manager. A lovely, cheery woman who immigrated from Taiwan to the U.S. years before and had spent months hopping from city to city, never staying in one place for too long. The black-haired woman had decided to stay permanently around Vash's second year of working at the café, stating that, "The vibe is just too good to leave behind. That, and the coffee." She handled the in-and-out coffee orders and cashier duties. Mae acted as the mother hen of the group, besides Berwald—though Vash would never admit it to his face—and made sure to keep everyone in high spirits and customers pleased.

The café had become almost like a foster family for Vash and his sister.

Berwald and Tino like the parents they never had, and Matthew like a brother. Over the course of four years, Vash had worked his way up to the level of manager and also assisted the Swede with the shop's accounting, having always had a knack for math.

He'd never worked in a place where everyone got along before, and it had been a jarring change to accompany his initial culture shock. The Swiss siblings had been invited to many outings and birthday parties, something that the both of them had to get used to.

Vash had no desire to look for a job anywhere else, and was quite content to spend his days around people he actually enjoyed and doing work he took pride in.

...xXx…

Set in a closely knit college neighborhood, The Café Raring had a handful of regulars among the ever changing waves of people.

The first was a profoundly tired looking man with wild, curly brown hair who would always wait outside until either Vash or Berwald would open up the shop around 5am. The Swiss was pretty sure that he was a student at the nearby university, which would explain his early morning, or late night, coffee habit. Vash appreciated seeing the stranger's never ending collection of cat T-shirts and sweatshirts that he always wore.

Another regular of the shop was a towering, nearly platinum blond fellow who constantly wore a scarf, even in the summer. Shorts, flip-flops, tank top, and his token scarf. Weird one that one, but he was polite enough. Sometimes he came in with two women who Vash could only assume were related to him, if their silver-blonde hair and bickering were anything to go by.

Vash didn't know his name, and Matthew usually insisted on taking his order so he must be a familiar local, though he didn't know where from. Toris also seemed to know him, though he would hide out in the kitchen whenever the man would walk in. He should really ask the Lithuanian about that some time.

The next two regulars usually showed up an hour after opening, and always together. An Englishman professor who worked at said university—Vash knew this because the man was always complaining about his students' behavior—and the French owner of the restaurant across the street, Merveille.

Francis was his name, nice enough man. Vash served him many times throughout the day, despite the fact that the Frenchman could probably easily make his own coffee. He wouldn't turn away a customer, though, and he had to admit that it was nice to chat with the other man about crazy encounters and food when they were both standing outside for their breaks.

It took him five months to figure out that he was Angelique and Matthew's father, though. A fact which neither ever let him live down.

And then there was the Austrian.

Him.

Fuck, if there'd ever been a person on Earth more precise about his coffee than that man. If his order wasn't made exactly the way he suggested—the amount of espresso, the number of spoonfuls of sugar, the swirl of cream—he would ask for them to remake it.

Not rudely, not like some asshole patron expecting to receive extra consideration because they're God's gift to the world. No, never rudely; only with a gentle insistence that they'd gotten it wrong, and for them to try again.

"Once more, if you please."

Bazil and Mae outright refused to serve him, apparently unable to ever make a coffee that was just right. The man would eventually take whatever was given to him, not wanting to hold up the line any further, and leave. Over the course of several months, it seemed like no one else on staff could make his coffee correctly, not even Berwald.

The Swede had been especially remorseful at being unable to satisfy the customer's picky appetite, and had sulked for two days straight afterwards. Two days. No one could meet the man's standards.

All except him, as fate would have it.

Vash remembered Angelique tugging him inside by the sleeve one afternoon, forced to end his glorious hour break after only ten minutes. The girl had been whispering in a panic about how there was a madman who didn't like any of the coffee she made him and she needed his help and how there was a line building—and wow, he can still remember her pleading. He also remembered being peeved at being torn away from his lunch too soon, and he was determined to make the grumpiest cup of coffee of his life.

At the time, Vash hadn't had the chance to serve the man yet. He'd never even caught glimpses of him, either being on break or not at work that day, and had only heard the tales of woe from his companions.

So when he'd walked in from the back of the kitchen, through the entrance to behind the counters, and came face to face with the man, Vash had thought Angelique was pulling his leg.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir," Angelique had said with a relieved smile, gesturing to the Swiss. "I'm sure my manager can assist you with your order." And with that, she swiftly snagged another customer and stepped away.

Vash hardly heard her. He was too busy staring at the man across the counter from him.

Surely this . . . this attractive man couldn't be the difficult patron he'd heard his fellows complain so much about. With his soft looking and neatly styled, hazel-colored hair, and his long asymmetrical, navy wool pea coat that fit his lithe form a little too perfectly. Or with that handsomely narrow face, high cheekbones, and, God, were his eyes violet—

"What can I get you?" Vash blurted, forcing his thoughts to grind to a halt before things got awkward.

When the man spoke back, his voice was a smooth, lilting accent that sent the Swiss's heart into a flutter.

"I'd like one Melange with a teaspoon of sugar, please," he'd said, fiddling with one of his coat buttons. "I can explain what that is, if you're unfamiliar," he added almost apologetically.

It was then that Vash recognized his accent.

"Are you German?" Vash asked.

"Yes." The prim man perked up, rare-colored eyes widening. "I mean, of a sorts. I'm from Austria."

Vash had felt a tiny flicker of delight at being able to guess correctly. His own accent was obvious, and while his English was clear and precise, his voice was naturally quiet and gruff. Not to mention, he'd become adept at picking out the familiar tones echoing from others, nostalgic at the sound. He couldn't quite catch his smile before the other noticed.

"That explains it," he'd muttered to himself, beginning to make the tailored Melange.

He didn't account for the other hearing him.

"Explains what?" the taller man asked with a tilt of his head, a stray curl loosening in front of an ear.

"Your finicky orders," Vash replied, adding in the sugar to the espresso before he worked the steamed milk.

"I hardly think a Melange counts as finicky." The apparent Austrian partially pouted his bottom lip. Vash inhaled sharply.

It wasn't uncommon for them to get a customer requesting a specific kind of coffee from a specific nation. Their menu had items from around the world already, but it would have been impossible to include all the different ways people brew the beaned drink from everywhere else. It was nice to get to work on uniquely German flavors, as coffee had been his lifeblood during the long days and nights in Bern.

He glanced to his left to see that Angelique had successfully redirected the depleting line of walk-ins, and that it was currently only him and the striking gentleman on the far side of the counter. With practiced ease, the blond man added the bubbling milk to the espresso and made sure to leave a nice froth at the top of the larger cup.

"Of course not," Vash said as he stepped over and presented the complete coffee for inspection. "It just takes a German to make German coffee, ja?"

"Oh?" The brunet tilted his head again, eyes flashing curiously as he picked up the cup.

Vash had just shrugged, and waited, half expecting to get the boiling liquid thrown back at him with a pretty sneer.

However, when the man had tasted the coffee, he'd looked all sorts of surprised. Pleased. Vash felt his ears burn as he watched the man lick a line of froth from his lip.

The Austrian briefly murmured a melodic, "I wonder," paid, and then left.

Not one of the staff had believed Angelique when she told them about it. That the unappeasable customer had accepted the very first coffee Vash had made him. The Swiss found it all amusing, though he could admit to being a little baffled himself, slightly dizzied from his brush with the beautiful Austrian gentleman.

That is, until said man came in again with a different order and Vash was able to satisfy it. This went on for some time, and the blond was sure that the man was trying to challenge him in some way, like a game. Every time the Austrian entered the shop, Vash would be the one to take his order, and every time the man accepted what he was given without any sort of protest.

It'd gotten to the point that, according to his coworkers, if Vash wasn't working then he wouldn't order any coffee. The elegant man would instead purchase a pastry and leave.

Occasionally, he came into the café to sit at one of their booths and relax. He'd order his coffee, something to eat, and then sit in the far back corner by the window to read or do some kind of work in a notebook.

The Austrian would sit for hours, once in awhile asking for another drink. Vash would try not to steal glances for hours, giving him the refills as needed.

Vash was reluctant to admit it, but he definitely took it as a point of pleasure to be the only one able to serve the particular man. Sure, it was annoying that he'd sometimes have to be dragged away from something else important just to do so, but he had to give the man credit where it was due.

Vash made one helluva cup o' coffee.

...xXx…

Raring - Swedish old-fashioned nickname meaning "sweetheart, dear one"

Merveille - French for "marvel, wonder"

Ja - German for "yes"

Melange - A Melange is the typical Viennese coffee specialty. It is one small espresso served in a large cup with half steamed milk topped off with milk froth.

I've done it, folks. Can you believe it, I've finally done it. I gave in and made a flipping Coffee Shop!AU fanfic at last. I swore it wouldn't be done. Now look at me. Look back to you. Look back at me. Now look at these dumb characters that I love so much that I am literally handing them the happiest AU on a silver platter.

Just how many times can I write about the same characters falling in love, you ask? All.

I'm gifting this to my good friend, Mr_Roderich. You've been there for me during some tough times, and this is only a fraction of my thanks that I can give back to you. I hope you'll like this completely indulgent fluff, hun~