Work Text:
Techno's having a normal one. It's been a fine shift - the weather is good, not the summer heat that makes Techno's shirt cling to him with sweat, not cold enough that they have to shut down - and he's about to ask if Dream wants him to send Tommy home for the day. No one's buying tickets to the hayride at 3 in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and if they do, Sam's still out in the fields somewhere with a dubiously legal driver's license. They'll take care of it.
That's when Techno sees The Man.
He's wearing a godawful green bucket hat, blond hair pulled back under it, tugging on the sleeves of his flannel as he walks. And he’s pulling a whole pallet behind him, like it weighs nothing, even though Techno knows each one of those things contains -
He peers over the man’s shoulder. Eight rows of pumpkins, each row with four or five each in it, which means that has to be about -
“Uh,” Techno says, slipping back into his trusty Customer Service Voice. “How… many pumpkins are we gettin’ today?”
“Forty-two,” the man informs him with a smile. Open, expectant, like that’s a normal thing to say and not the wildest sentence Techno has heard in his seven years of working here.
“…Right,” Techno says. “I need to check on our mass-purchase policy real quick. Just give me one second.”
“Sure,” the man says with another easy smile.
Techno ducks into the wooden building behind him, the glorified shed where Dream keeps his office. They don’t have a mass purchase policy. No one else has ever tried to buy this many pumpkins before.
“Dream,” Techno says, leaning in the doorframe. Dream’s at his desk, a rickety wooden thing that’s bending under the weight of all the papers and trinkets crammed onto it. At Techno’s voice, he glances up obligingly. “There’s a guy here, and he’s trying to buy an entire pallet of pumpkins. That has to be a sex thing, right? Like - it’s gotta.”
Dream stares at him for a second, face caught between confusion and amusement. “What?”
“Forty-two pumpkins,” Techno repeats. “All for himself. He is going to take our precious pumpkins, the seeds sewn with our own blood and toil, and use them to make fetish content on Instagram Reels.”
“Oh my god,” Dream says through a strangled laugh. “Techno, he - maybe he’s a teacher. Maybe he needs a pumpkin for every kid in his class.”
Techno shakes his head, face solemn as Dream lets out that tea kettle wheeze he’s got. “He’s fuckin’ ‘em, Dream. I’m sorry, but someone’s got to tell you.”
“Don’t say that,” Dream croaks. “Don’t accuse our customers of - “
“I’m going back out,” Techno says, still serious, “to sell that man his sex pumpkins. I just needed someone to know. I needed to not be alone with this.”
He leaves Dream, still cackling, and heads outside. The man hasn't moved an inch since he left. "Everything good?" he asks.
“The purchase should be fine,” Techno says, all business and customer-comes-first charm. “Will that be cash or card?”
The man smiles with relief. “Card, thank you.” He hands over, just, the most garish piece of plastic Techno has ever seen in his life. It's got a kitten, a puppy, and a pig, and they're all frolicking in a meadow in a way that has never once occurred in nature. White lettering across the bottom of the card declares his name to be Phil Craft.
“Augh," Techno says. The sound he makes is an unavoidable reaction to being confronted by whatever is going on with this man's credit card.
“What?” the man - Phil - asks, even though privately Techno thinks he has got to know the guttural, instinctive emotions his card evokes in the masses.
“Nothing,” Techno says instead. “Your total will be - " He reads the numbers again, making sure he's got it right. "...Three hundred and thirty-six dollars even, sir.”
“You’re selling me three hundred dollars worth of pumpkins," the man says with an easy grin as Techno swipes his card while trying to touch as little of it as possible, lest the potent cuteness rub off on him somehow. "You can call me Phil."
“Phil, then,” Techno says, handing back the card and tapping a few numbers on the screen. “It'll ask you a few questions." As Phil taps at the kiosk - tip, signature, receipt - Techno tears off a piece from a pad of paper and scribbles on it with the nearest pencil, a stub of a thing adorned with orange and white turkeys. "Please. Take my number.”
“Oh,” Phil says, flushing red, and Techno immediately recognizes his mistake.
“Oh, not - just for the pumpkins,” Techno clarifies. “Whatever you're doing with that many pumpkins, I want documentation. I want pictures.”
“Ah,” Phil says, sounding a bit strangled. His face is still a bright shade of red, dusting the tops of his ears under his hat. “Right. Of course.”
Techno pauses for a second, considering. Phil’s - well, he’s not bad to look at. His arms ripple with muscle under his flowing shirt. His beard goes with his eyes, and it all adds up to one hell of a face.
Plus, he’s wearing socks with sandals, and he’s buying forty-two pumpkins, so either way, Techno wants in.
“Or,” he amends, “not just for the pumpkins. If you want.”
Phil makes a choked noise, somehow flushing even darker, and it’s Techno’s turn to grin.
“I assume that means I’ll be hearin’ from you,” he says. “Here’s your receipt, sir.”
Phil looks at him, and then he casts a glance over his shoulder. “I might need some help,” he says, cool and casual. “Getting all of these into my car.”
Techno grins wider. “Dream!” he yells into the shed, untying his apron with one hand and swinging it onto his assigned hook. “I’m goin’ on break!”
Dream's laughter comes, muffled, through the wall. “With the pumpkin sex guy?”
Phil laughs, eyes horrified. “What?”
“Why would you call one of our dear customers that?” Techno calls back as he vaults over the counter. “I can’t believe you, Dream, really!”
“Parked over there,” Phil says, turning and gesturing to the smallest car Techno has ever seen in his life, painted a robin's egg blue.
“Of course you are,” Techno says, but he grabs the back of the palette and starts to push.