That was one of the most dreadful phrases for underpaid baristas all over the globe. Especially when spoken out of the mouth of someone who clearly had too much money to have to settle for a shitty cafe like this one. His voice was level, carrying authority… but oddly soft. Like, even when upset, he was used to working with something skittish. Maybe a farmer, or a hunter.
Judging by the insignia on his coat it was rather obvious which he was.
"Well? Is no one going to fess up?"
The angel, yes, angel, had fluffy blonde hair. That strawberry kind that picked up ever so slightly red in the light. It was littered with the pigmentation one might see in a man going grey, well, hiding that he was going grey. Thick streaks of silver and occasional lines from bleach. his stubble was lined with those little salt and peppers, clearly growing in a beard too fast to hide the lack of colour on his face. His bangs framed sharp dark brown eyes that despite his annoyance didn’t hold a glare. Actually he had that assholeish grin you get from smart guys, fangy smile accentuating the lines contouring his face brought on by age.
His wings were … huge. Impressive, intimidating thing. Many angel or avian species would find ways to bind them so that it didn’t disrupt others. The blonde in front of them however saw no point in that. The limbs connected to his back stretching out behind him as he tapped his hand waiting, knocking over a nearby flimsy stand that was advertising a new drink that was available for a limited time.
"This isn’t what I ordered."
Unfortunately Bear had left the backroom just in time to find out the business man was looking for them. Their coworkers face souring as he ranted about how he ‘didn’t understand what was so difficult about getting a drink right’.
The other couldn’t help but notice…
A girls name was on his cup. He’d picked up the wrong order by accident. The one THEY made.
It just so happened that Bear, or well, [----], from the hastily done pin on their apron strings was just getting off work. Most of the time, they'd handle the transitionary closing shift for when BRING ME COFFEE OR BRING ME DEATH would prepare for the influx of customers that were sure to come in the night, and so when the store was arguably at its busiest in the one hour of rest, there always happened to be let's say, unpleasant closers who barged in and made everything worse for everyone.
This customer was one of those people.
Wow. Big customer. Bear had to swallow past the lump in their throat that appeared once he was looming over the counter with those wings of his. It's almost terrifying how large he was while going on ranting about "basic drink making skills" and pointing to the "20 year anniversary" board to ask about "if you've even learnt anything in that time." Most customers were hard to calm down. But Bear had a strategy nailed down: offer a free drink, grovel and beg and bow a few times, and wipe the sweat off your brow after the customer leaves with a grumble. It's natural that a species such as them was accustomed to dealing with larger, more irritable predators, what with their history of scraping by life's offerings for basic survival, but in this coffee shop, the counter was a battle they were more than well equipped to win. And by God they will win.
First, however, they tuck their employee pin into their pocket. Just so he wouldn't get any ideas and threaten to call the manager on them. Manager, being them. But, there was no harm in being cautious. Compared to the displeased customer, Bear's presence had the sense of someone desperately trying to blend into the background. In their black shirt and their chestnut brown work apron, they stood at a much shorter height, barely reaching the angel's shoulder as they took the counter, shoulders surprisingly broad for one of their stature.
Dark brown eyes that crinkled with age stare up at the man under even darker black bangs that fall across their face so neatly, you'd think the mess was part of their disguise. Instead, they look at his eyes (which seemed to have softened?) with a confident neutral customer service expression, only made more successful with the lack of life in their face whatsoever. It'd be concerning if he wasn't more focused on the drink. The only thing that disrupts this clandestine sequence is the slight bump in their nosebridge that peeks out before continuing straight down.
A quick glance at his drink does give them a crack in the mask, dread coloring their face as they realize that he's holding what is in fact, their drink. Which was a recipe that they were not selling today. Oh no. Employee privilege. Actually they can't let anyone know about this.
"Good evening Sir. I'm so sorry to hear about your drink, could I have your name and order number to reconfirm what you were promised?"
