Chapter Text
September 26, 2012
The first time, it is six o’ clock and Newt has realized there is no way in hell he is finishing this paper tonight without some serious caffeine. He walks to the café on the corner, opens the door, and promptly walks back out without entering. Shit.
There’s that girl - oh for fuck’s sake, he can’t even remember her name. But he is pretty sure he promised to call her back, and he didn’t. And she’s manning the counter. Dammit, does she work here? Son of a bitch.
He stands on the corner for a moment, trying to force his caffeine-deprived brain to think. Isn’t there a little café a few blocks east? The one with the weird name, what was it…Eureka. Something Eureka. Yes, he can remember it now. He never went there before, but it’ll have to do.
It’s a little closer than he remembered, and the name is Striker Eureka. Seriously weird name.
It’s almost totally empty at this time, but fortunately still open. Closing in like half an hour. Thank fuck.
The bell tinkles spookily when he pushes the glass door open, and the guy sitting behind the counter looks up, a blatantly annoyed expression on his face. Newt adopts a rueful, apologetic smile, and walks up to the counter. The guy looks unimpressed. He sighs audibly, drops the worn notebook he was scribbling in, and stands up. His nametag reads “Gottlieb” in jagged letters.
“How can I help you,” he says flatly in a crisp British accent.
Newt looks up at the blackboard behind the counter, which is written over in chalk with the same handwriting as on the guy’s nametag. There are way too many choices for this level of tired. He looks back at Gottlieb, smiles wearily, and says, “Dude, just give me whatever has the most caffeine.”
The guy chews on his lip for a second, then nods and announces a seemingly arbitrary price. It’s not ridiculous, and caffeine, so Newt just nods and hands him a crumpled five. He might be impressed with how quickly the guy counts out his change if he weren’t so tired.
He drops into one of the comfy squashy armchairs scattered around the café, and dreamily watches as Gottlieb briskly prepares his drink. He moves with quick efficiency, and it’s oddly hypnotizing. Plus, he’s skinny as fuck, and his worn t-shirt clings tightly to his back, showing the shoulder blades moving under the skin. Which Newt appreciates.
He finishes, and turns around, catching Newt staring. He scowls at him suspiciously. Real friendly guy, Newt thinks. Gottlieb wordlessly claps the drink on the counter, and turns back to his notebook.
“You might want to consider your customer service,” Newt drawls at the guy’s narrow back as he picks up the drink.
“Thanks, I’ll consider that,” he snaps, and Newt thinks that possibly he has never before heard a sentence more laden with sarcasm. He grins, and cheerily lifts the drink to him, before sauntering out. Possibly he hears the guy mutter “Go fuck yourself,” under his breath, but it’s hard to say for sure.
It’s the most fucking delicious coffee he has ever drunk in his whole goddamn life.