Number

A Word: Based off an old picture of chalk board where it says, "Today your barista is: 1. Hella fucking gay. 2. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: You give me your number." I can't resist playing with long dead ideas.

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As if the sign itself isn't obvious enough, there's a post-it note hanging precariously off the side -because there's no room for anymore writing on the small board- with his name written on it. Malik takes the time to appreciate the poor planning and absolute cheesiness of this gesture before turning to the smug face of the man behind the counter.

"One, you are not a barista. You shovel cheap ground coffee into a pot, run hot water through it, and throw creamer at people who ask for anything more than that," Malik says and that's not the insult Altair is clearly taking it as from the way his face is screwing up into a scowl.

It's no Starbucks and that's the whole reason Malik keeps coming to this hole in the wall even though there's five coffee shops between here and his home that'd be happy to take his money. Malik just isn't willing to part with his hard earned money for something with a name longer than his caffeine deprivation will allow him to remember. 'Coffee, black' is the full extent of his vocabulary most days. The eclectic selection of food and drink -that seems to change daily- is quaint when he's awake enough to appreciate it, and that's really all he needs.

"Two," Malik pauses here and debates how best to word his second point. Mostly because it took him six months to figure out the truth of it himself, and it's embarrassing how long that took. "Two, you don't actually work here. You just shove Desmond into the back when I come in and pretend you know how the register actually works."

Also, various other implements of cooking and drink making that Malik has taken to ordering from each time just to see how far Altair was willing to take the charade. His bank account has appreciated the long break of not having to pay for lunch for so long though. The gobsmacked look on Altair's face as he's caught is worth the wait as well.

There's a loud bark of laughter from the back and a clatter of metal on metal. Altair spares a dirty look to the open doorway before he tries to visibly gather himself again. "I do actually work here-"

"Owning the shop isn't the same as actually working here," Malik cuts in with relish, and admires the way Altair's mouth works before he snaps it closed with a click. Desmond sounds like he's having problems breathing in the back.

"How," Altair's eyes narrow in suspicion, and his lips push out slightly in an almost pout that Malik's looking forward to bringing to his attention eventually, "do you know that?"

"It's called public record," Malik says as Desmond sidles out of the back. A to-go cup of steaming something in one hand, a bag that looks about right for the sandwich -and thank fuck Desmond has always been the one to make it considering how very many times he's seen Altair almost slice a finger off- he usually orders, and a deeply red face. "Given how incompetent you are I thought you were the owner's son. Imagine my surprise to find out you actually own this place. Shouldn't you have some working knowledge of your own business, Altair?"

Desmond starts laughing again, muffled badly, as Malik takes his order before scuttling away again. Altair jerks to the side and Malik hears the sound of a foot connecting before Desmond lurches with a curse. He ignores the furious exchange of hand gestures and snarls the two -supposedly grown- men exchange as he pulls out a few bills and drops them on the counter. A first, he usually hands over his card for Altair to pretend to swipe, and turns to walk out.

He's almost to the door before Altair seems to pull himself out of his silent argument with his employee enough to notice. "Hey! Wait, Malik!"

Malik ignores Altair's shout and continues out. He's got an actual deadline today and has already spent more time getting lunch than he'd like. The board is reflected imperfectly in the door briefly before he's through it. Malik wonders at the coincidence that Altair finally grew enough of a set of balls to ask -indirectly- for his number the very day Malik grew tired of waiting. Hopefully, Desmond sticks around long enough to point out the numbers inked onto the money he left behind, or Malik will never let him live it down.

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