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Trip wakes up at 4am every morning.
He has to make and prep the dough in time for the morning rush. Croissants are a fickle mistress.
It is a labor of love, quick hands (dunked in cold water often because his body runs warm), and plenty of butter.
Carter’s is known for croissants. Buttery, flakey, light as a feather, melt in your mouth with a hint of crisp from that first chew - all things worth the obscene amount of money Trip spends on butter. Hint: It makes up almost a quarter of his budget, but it pays off with the first bite, and the second, and the third, and Trip is thankful that heart disease does not run in his family.
While legendary for its croissants, to a marginally lesser extent, Carter’s is known for its coffee - hot and rich with a smooth finish, revolving and seasonal confectionaries like delicate pate de fruits, spongy prinzregententorte, and earthy matcha macarons - Trip knows a patissier, an ex who recently made a career change into law - "It's nice to make what I want to make without being yelled at y'know?" and Trip himself, who many of the customers watched grow and grew up with.
He is pulling out the fourth batch of croissants, pain au chocolat, a house favorite, out of the oven when he notices the time. He pours a cup of coffee - cream, no sugar - and a still warm croissant, and sets it in his office (more of a nap room than anything else). He leaves the first aid kit open and a shot of vodka.
Two hours until opening for the seven am rush. He walks into the back, just having finished sweeping the sidewalk, and he notices the croissant is gone, the shot glass empty, and the cup of coffee half finished.
Sharon acknowledges him with the flicker of her eyes, but is otherwise preoccupied with stitching a gnarly cut along her thigh with surgeon like precision.
Trip smiles, fond and slightly exasperated, as he walks the five steps into his office and grabs a seat beside her as he pulls out a box of sterile gloves.
"And a good morning to you too," he says. She scrunches up her face slightly as he disinfects her skin before methodically placing steri-strips against the open wound on her shoulder as easily as if he was layering strips of delicate dough.
"Thanks," mutters Sharon after he finally applies a bandage over her wound. Her voice is raw, a purple and green bruise the size of a fist decorating her bicep along with a multitude of minor bruises and scratches along her forearms, and the dark circles underneath her eyes make resemble a raccoon; all in all, she looks pretty good. Her visits are like clockwork: the last Monday or Tuesday of every month without fail, and always in various stages of bruised and bleeding. The second time she was in his office, she was sporting a noticeable softball sized lump on her head, a large bleeding gash across her side, an eight mm bullet still lodged in her thigh, and a chipped front tooth. He almost shut down the store for the day if not for the threat to call his mother. Apparently, his business was more important than a bleeding cousin. It was confirmed in a conference call with his mom; he could hear her shrug as she said nonchalantly, "Occupational hazard" and "Don't let her fall asleep for the rest of the day" and reprimands to visit more often, and that was that.
He has kept a well-stocked medical supply closet in his office ever since.
Sharon is the sole reason why his medic skills are still sharp, he muses as he refills her mug of coffee. "How was...?"
"Uzbekistan," says Sharon curtly. The corners of her lips twitch upward as she brings the fresh cup of coffee up to her mouth. He is the only person who can make coffee for her at Carter’s. She was his most terrifying and helpful critic during the fine-tuning stages of his coffee bar. She was the one who threw away his beans, scoffing at the quality, and personally scoured the city for a roastery that directly knew where their beans came from (a pleasant family-owned company from Brazil that lived on the other side of Harlem) and interrogated and lectured his staff on the proper way to make coffee. They could make coffee with their non-dominant hand while taking rapid-fire and incredibly elaborate orders from Sharon across the countertop. The Starbucks that opened across the street from Carter’s shut their doors in the first year. Clearly her Spartan training worked out for the best.
“Here,” Sharon nudges a small white box towards him on his desk.
It is a spoon with the Uzbekistan seal gilded on the edge of the handle.
"I play medic and barista for you and all I get is a spoon?" Trips asks, tucking the spoon in his desk before he turns back into the kitchen to take out a batch of cookies from the oven. "No chocolates? Cheese?"
"I would have given you uranium, but no dice," replies Sharon dryly.
She is almost finished with her cup when he returns with a bowl of oatmeal - steel cut with a generous handful of roughly chopped dried figs, a heavy sprinkle of brown sugar, splash of cream, and a pinch of salt - and she glares at him and then at the brown sugar, which he insists is only a little when in fact its two whole tablespoons but hey, live free. “Empty calories,” she states but sighs appreciatively into a mouthful of oatmeal and finishes it off in silence as Trip greets the morning shift workers. He explains her irregular presence and battered appearance through her occupation; he tells them that she is a stuntwoman, so now they only give her sympathetic looks and homemade empanadas.
Trip eventually shoos her into his apartment for a shower and nap. She rolls her eyes but limps upstairs, a warm chocolate chip cookie in hand.
--
Carter’s is a madhouse in the morning with half awake customers in work attire, craving caffeine and a quick breakfast. It is reminiscent of a zombie hoard, grunts included.
Trip grins in amusement when they perk up at the first sip of hot coffee or tea. That first glimmer of light, that caffeine-induced alertness and relief is what makes the early mornings worth it.
He adores them all – the regulars, the tourists, the cranky, the terrifyingly chipper, all of them.
Some of them are more memorable than others.
Trip remembers a couple of soldiers; they were stationed in Norfolk and currently on leave. One of the men, a plain black coffee and a croissant with a sliver of sweet honey cinnamon butter, was originally from the City, Harlem to be exact. He was charming with an infectious gap-toothed grin. Once he found out Trip grew up in Brooklyn, the two would often commiserate about New York City, before the redevelopment, before the urban renewal. Beside him was his partner, making wise cracks while eating the chef’s special: a stack of red velvet pancakes, washing it down with iced coffee with extra pumps of caramel. After his third stack, he would pat his stomach and compliment Trip's cooking with a southern drawl as sticky sweet as molasses.
Sam and Riley. They were regulars, coming in sometimes twice a day during their two-week leave. Riley ordered the same thing each and every time - a stake of pancakes with an iced coffee. Trip and Sam often joked that Riley would break tape from gaining weight by eating pancakes everyday.
Trip packed them a whole red velvet cake and a dozen croissants before they left to head back to Norfolk, wishing them luck on their deployment.
It was January, a year later, and Trip was contemplating laying out mats since it was sleeting outside, essentially another woefully typical freezing winter morning in New York. He noticed a figure huddled under the awning.
Trip opened it, shivering at the sudden burst of icy air. “We open in an hour but feel free to warm yourself up.”
“Thanks.” Trip recognized him. More than anything else, he recognized that look. It was the same expression that sometimes crossed Gramma Peggy and Granddad Gabe face, mournful with a lingering quiet sadness, whenever they spoke about their former comrades in the war.
Trip had made Gramma and Grandad a cup of cocoa; it was not much, just chocolate powder, a handful of Hershey's chocolate kisses since momma always said kisses made everything better, and microwaved milk because he was seven and not allowed to use the stovetop yet, but the look of relief on their faces was enough for him to realize that there were different ways to help people. Different ways to be good.
Trip placed a cup of coffee, black, and a croissant with a sliver of butter in front of Sam. “On the house.”
Next to him, he placed a stack of red velvet pancakes and an iced coffee, extra caramel, and Sam delicately placed Riley's dogtags on the table in front of the plate. Neither said anything more for the rest of the morning.
Trip last saw Sam a couple of months ago, relaxed and at ease with himself, wearing khakis and a button up like a typical civvie. He was doing well for himself as a VA counselor. Riley’s dog tags were carefully tucked underneath his shirt. He ordered the same thing, coffee with a croissant, but also tackled a stack of red velvet pancakes. He wiped his mouth, a small smile on his face, "These are hella sweet."
Trip enjoys being a primarily local establishment; he is situated rather far from the areas frequented by tourists. The numbers of people who frequent his café explode after he gets an expose in the New Yorker. Trip considers changing the cafe’s name.
His mother visits him during that week, the New Yorker in front of her and a smirk on her full, red painted lips. “My son, the next up and coming restaurateur, huh?” She taps the picture of him, a candid picture of him smiling at Grammy Bhatnagar as she describes how to make proper Desi-style coffee - frothy and silky smooth. “I sent copies to the family.”
Trip serves her a cup of rose hip tea and a slice of goat cheese and pistachio cheesecake with a drizzle of warm salted toffee sauce, "Of course you did."
She hums happily around the first bite of cheesecake. "At least I can display one of my childrens’ achievements in the foyer."
"And here I thought I was the black sheep of the family," replies Trip.
--
The café finally quiets in the late evening. Every Monday is Croque Monsieur Mondays. The cafe is swamped and he is serving the warm and gooey sandwiches all day until his ears bled, but it never lessens his love for the sandwich with its sweet and salty cured ham and perfectly melted and nutty Gruyère cheese, a dab of spicy Dijon mustard, all covered in creamy béchamel sauce, more cheese and broiled until hot and bubbly.
LaLa, the fitness trainer who has a gym two blocks over brings her entire Zumba class to Carter’s for their cheat day meal. Forty-two ravenous women and men make for an interesting dinner crowd.
After he gives the reins to his staff, most are either cleaning or feasting on the day's leftovers, he grabs a sandwich and a large bowl of tomato bisque up the stairs into his apartment.
Sharon is napping on his couch, color is finally returning to her cheeks, and she must be relaxed because she does not punch him in the sternum when he places the plates on his coffee table in front of her with a soft thump.
"Closing time already?" She asks hoarsely as she sits up with a pained groan; sleep still in her eyes, but her hands eagerly reaching out for the plate.
"Yup," says Trip, chuckling as she bites into the hot sandwich with relish. "You slept the day away, as per usual." He already ate with a friend, Monica from Louisiana who chats with him in French and insists that he test his beignet recipe on her first. She is studying for the detective's exam in between shifts and drank coffee by the gallon. "Feel better?"
"As much as one can with bruised ribs," Sharon finally replies after finishing off the soup with a soft slurp. She watches him as he carefully places his spoon from Uzbekistan between the Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan spoons. His makeshift kitchen slash dining room has a Mercator map projection of countries using souvenir cutlery she brings back with her.
"I just need Kyrgyzstan and we'll be good with the Eurasian continent," Trip steps back and stares at his collection fondly.
"You should come with me next time," Sharon says before she pops the last bite of sandwich in her mouth with a pleased hum. "You're basically a Specialist except for the official paperwork."
Like clockwork, they have the same conversation.
Sharon is rarely one to hold a grudge but when she did, oh, it was on. They had made it to the end of the program despite every spirit and body crushing exam and practicum that SHIELD threw their way. They were days from receiving their badges when Trip quietly submitted a letter of withdrawal. Sharon kicked down his door, finding his bunk empty. He disappeared for a year and a half; the only indicator that he was alive was the cryptic remarks from his mother and the basket of soft baked goods and fresh flowers that appeared every week by Peggy's bedside once she moved into hospice care.
It was summer when Trip reappeared later with an invitation for his family to a soft opening of his cafe.
Sharon had walked into the cafe ready to beat Trip to a pulp but stopped mid-step, family members scrambling around her to stop her before she tackled him, when she saw the expression on Peggy's face when she bit into his croissant.
"Oh," a delighted smile on Peggy’s face, the same pleased expression she made whenever the family came over for Granddad’s famous Sunday breakfasts, "This tastes like your grandfather's croissants."
They spar often at LaLa's gym. Sharon does not hold back and her disappointment, reopening like a poorly tended wound every time she visits him, tastes like salt and bone deep bruises.
"Thanks for the offer," says Trip. It is a script between them, like a reel stuck on a scene that refuses to move.
-
Sharon sends Trip an email out of the blue.
She did not come last month, she would be busy with a new assignment, she said the month before prior. He sees a crop of golden blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a shapely rear in tight running shorts that was the running topic on major news networks for three days straight.
-
"Would you like mayonnaise with your fries, sir?"
"Fuck no," is the immediate reply. "Goddamnit, what's the matter with you? Mayonnaise." It is spoken with such venom that Trip swears the entirety of Holland must sense his disgust.
Trip sits a bottle of ketchup in front of the irate customer. "The classic, then."
Mrs. Peterson just came back from the Netherlands and brought with her thirty pounds of chocolate (and a couple of other paraphernalia that Trip still wonders how she managed to get across customs) and shared it with Trip and his staff. It is only polite that he, too, spread the Dutch charm, but in a more legal manner. Today's specials include thick cut fries fried in duck fat and sprinkled with sea salt, ale-steamed mussels with a chunk of crusty bread, and chocolate waffles with caramel sugar crystals. He has to give his phone to one of the kitchen staff to vet because LaLa is cursing up a storm via text since cheat day is technically in two days but she wants waffles now.
Trip is topping off the gentleman's beer when, "The food is good and all, but I think it's time to get past your shitty teenage angst and get back to your job."
"I dropped out, sir," replies Trip. It is 3pm and slow. The staff is terrified of Fury, so Trip is the only one manning the counter area. "With all the good press SHIELD's getting, I would think y'all would be more discerning with who you take in. Taking in a dropout seems counterproductive."
After the battle in New York, agencies across the globe were inundated with applications. Apparently using Captain America and Iron Man as one's poster child was a great way to glamorize careers for world security.
"True," says Fury but he stares him in a scrutinizing manner that is too similar to Mom's. She taught her successor well. "But we still want the best."
"I appreciate the compliment -"
"Fuck that bullshit," says Fury, and Trip does not flinch. Won't. Fury is impressive but he grew up under the watchful eyes of much more intimidating people. The corners of Fury's mouth tick upward - he is pleased. "You were in the top 1% of your graduating class. One of the best students SHIELD has trained. I've seen your sparring sessions with Sharon - you haven't lost your edge. You still help people, playing good Samaritan when you're not here making tiny cups of overpriced coffee." Trip is offended, his coffee is not overpriced. Also, he considers putting out fires, chasing down petty thieves, and y'know, taking down organized crime syndicates a matter of respectable community involvement. "Matter of fact,” Fury glances at the dining room with the eclectic patrons scattered amongst the tables, “One of our agents reported that your intel gathering skills have improved since you’ve opened.”
Trip makes a mental note to remind his staff to boycott serving LaLa anything with carbohydrates or sugar in it. He knew befriending a SHIELD agent would come to bite him in the ass. “They’re just neighborhood folks, good people.”
“Uh huh.” Nick tilts his head towards Sophia, sitting behind an enormous slice of triple chocolate cake and unsweetened iced green tea; a busy graduate student at the New School. “Daughter of the director of Mossad.” He glances at Jacob and Benji, old timers who are playing checkers at a corner table stocked with a running tab for ginger beer and mussels, “Former freedom fighter generals for Jamaica’s liberation from the British.” Chocolate waffles pass by. “Mrs. Evi Peterson, former captain of the Royal Netherlands Army and part-time contraband smuggler. Don’t even get me started about your kitchen staff.”
“Fine,” Trip says curtly. Josephine catches his eyes, and smiles shyly while refilling Mr. Petrokov's coffee cup. He personally vetted his staff, he knows their various colorful histories but that does not change the fact that they are good people. “I won’t. Why now? My own mother didn’t try this hard to get me back into SHIELD.”
Fury rolls his eye, “Despite what she says, she coddles the hell out of y’all.” He leans forward, “I may have watched you grow up, but hell if I sit back and allow you to stay stagnant in this watering hole.”
“Please refrain from insulting my establishment,” says Trip politely. He only realizes that his hands are clenched when he moves to wave affably at the postal worker who comes in to drop off mail. Breathe. Mind games. He does not need to get himself pulled in. He turns to his stock of liquor.
“Oooh, you’ve made it into newspapers and magazines,” Fury scoffs. “Your croissants are good for the soul and the bane of waistlines from here to Connecticut. Is this all you want for yourself?”
Trip pours a whisky neat, 15 years old, smooth with earthy undertones, a hint of peat and fire. He sets it in front of Fury with a convincingly pleasant smile; he has been told he takes after Gabe in that respect. “We may do it differently, but we’re both helping people. I think I’ve done well for myself.”
"You can do better." Fury raises an eyebrow but accepts the proffered glass.
“Bribery won’t change my mind.” He takes a sip and a pleased expression crosses his face.
“Gramma’s favorite,” Trip explains. “I try and see her at least once every other week.”
“So you’re running alcoholic beverages to geriatrics now?”
“Gramma got worse after Granddad passed away.”
“...she did.”
“Before Granddad was enlisted, he was a jazz musician," Trips says wistfully. 'He wanted to open up his jazz bar in Harlem, but before he could, he was drafted."
Fury pointedly looks at the sign inside, Carter's in bright red.
"Granddad was fond of the name Carter," says Trip, smiling. His shoulders suddenly slump, "After he died, she got...worse, I knew I couldn’t leave her by herself,” Trip continues, his brow furrowed. “Lost in her memories. And we - we all had gotten so busy...”
Nick Fury remembers the reports that Trip’s mother had requested. Trip was seen working at shipping warehouse in the evening while working at a bakery a few blocks away from Peggy’s retirement home. All under the books and without paperwork. Waste of talent, he remembers grumbling to himself as he threw the photos on top of his desk.
“Captain America,” Trip smiles softly, “No, Rogers, Steve Rogers, when he finally visited grandma, she got a little better. He tries to see her once a month even though it hurts. For both of them, you know? Surrounded by those pictures and memories, and wondering what if?” Trip remembers stopping at the door of the retirement facility, seeing the old school motorcycle parked nearby. He had seen a flash of blonde hair in her room and walked away, leaving her flowers and croissants at the nurses’ station to give to her later.
“I told you,” Fury suddenly speaks, “To quit it with that kiddie sob story bullshit.”
“Sir -”
“Man, shut the fuck up,” says Fury, his fists clenched. “She is an amazing woman and someone I admire. She personally recruited me and was one of my mentors, don’t think y’all were the only ones Peggy Carter impacted.” He finishes the whisky in one gulp and sets it down with a thumb. “Don’t you dare diminish her legacy, or Gabe’s, who she fuckin’ loved like hell, just because she’s old and Roger’s back, that’s fucking insulting to her and what she stood for.”
Trip remains quiet.
“Peggy and Gabe love you,” continues Fury. “I’m pretty damn sure they would fully support you in whatever you all wanted but not because you felt sorry for them.” He turns on his heel, “Give them more credit.”
-
“Were you ever going to ask me to come back?” Trip is unloading his car; he has potato and leek soup, croissants, and fresh cut morning glories.
“Nope,” says his mother as she grabs the flowers. She gives them a sniff with a pleased smile. “You were always the stubborn one.” She places a hand on his cheek, firm but caring, forcing him to look at her. She looks at him, and she is his mother but he can see visages of the Director of SHIELD in the corners of her eyes. “Stubborn but bright. I was sure you would find your way eventually.”
“Not as a restaurateur?”
She shrugs her shoulders, sliding her arm into his, “Why not both?”
-
Peggy is having a good day. When he tells her his decision to go back to SHIELD and why he left in the first place, she appropriately thumps him on the head. She looks at her daughter with a look, “Your son clearly got this from his father’s side of the family.” She grasps his hand, her own dwarfed by his larger ones; he can still remember when it was the other way around.
She says with a face full of love, “I’ve told you enough stories about my missions, it’s time for you to return the favor.”
-
Trip is essentially a turnkey owner, but he still insists on getting bi-weekly emails about Carter’s daily operations. He is unpacking a care package from his staff and regulars, ranging from cookies to booze (he is not sure how they got the address let alone the booze past clearance) when he receives a knock outside of his bunk. He already met his partner and bunkmate, Monroe – he is a pleasant enough guy with a beautiful wife who works for SHIELD in Communications. He has a son, an adorable hellion who looks just like him.
“So, you’re my new probationary agent.”
“I am,” says Trip as he stands up and extends a hand to John Garrett, his assigned superior officer.
“Well, probie,” Garrett shakes his hand just a touch too firm. “I read your files. Don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
“Didn’t expect you too.”
Trip wakes up at 4am to the sound of gunfire and yelling. Ian Quinn has found them.