FIC: 'Double Tall, Extra Hot' (R) (1shot)
Title: Double Tall, Extra Hot
Author: Thalia :D (thalialunacy)
Genre: Alternate Universe (!!) first time rom-com.
Rating: R for language and sexual innuendo.
Length: 2,110 words.
Summary: In which Chris and Zach are baristas, and Karl is a haphazardly-scheduled stunt coordinator. Featuring supergay!matchmaking!Zach, pining!Chris, and charminglyawkward!Karl.
Notes: Inspired by my own Tweet, and my own pathetic life. Thanks to Janice_lester for the New Zealand factoid.
Chris is thinking of starting a chart. An Excel spreadsheet, if you will. Column A: Day of the week. Column B: Time of day. Column C: kind of drink ordered. Column D: level of extreme hotness achieved by customer.
He settles for marking up the whiteboard one day during a slow shift.
Zach smirks at him. "No names? We're just remembering customers based solely on drink choice and physical beauty? My, aren't we fulfilling every southern California stereotype today."
"No, because I used my turn signals while driving here," Chris quips absently. At Zach's eyebrow, he shrugs and makes something up. "Just trying to see if I have a type."
"You're thirty-one. Of course you have a type." Zach's eyes glint as the bell above the door tinkles and Chris stands and glances at the clock. "And here he comes."
"Shut your face," Chris says, smacking Zach across the arm with his towel, then shoving it back into his back pocket.
"What?" Zach protests. "I like it when you're all puppy-eyed and stupid!"
"You're such a dick."
Zach bats his eyelashes.
"Plus, it could be someone el--"
"Anybody home?"
And the rounded 'o' of the Kiwi call signals a win for Zach. Chris looks at him pleadingly. "Oh no, he's all yours, Princess." He swats at Chris's ass with his own towel. "Now get a move on."
Chris wants to shout 'BOO YOU WHORE' but has to settle for throwing a muttered 'fuck you' over his shoulder as he walks back into the main room and up behind the counter.
Where the most beautiful man in the world is waiting for him. Swear to God. And Chris lives in Los Angeles; he's seen a lot of pretty people. But this one -- This one's not just pretty, he's… he's real. And not in a Pinocchio way but in a High Western sort of way: He's there to save the damsel in distress, would never lie to your mama, and always gives just the right amount of mercy to the bad guys.
He's fucking nice, and a little awkward, and looks like he stepped off a Hollywood set.
…which, well, he did.
His name is Karl Urban, and he's one of the hottest--triple entendre intended--stunt coordinators in Hollywood right now. And Chris Pine wants in his pants.
Which in itself is enough to make Zach mock him. Chris doesn't usually do dick. At least, not very often, and not really for serious. Just for play-play, because that's what you do when you're thirty-one and bored and write too much poetry for any self-respecting thirty-something, even one that works at a coffeehouse and is a staple at several open mic nights.
None of which, thank Christ, Karl has ever attended. Otherwise, he would've heard poetry--and possibly even a Joni Mitchell-esque song or two--about himself, and the ensuing emotional damage wrought upon Chris would've harshed even Zach's mellow.
"What'll it be today?" Chris asks, trying not to think about poetry or charts or anything vaguely related to Karl Urban's dick in his mouth. He tries to smile, too, but that probably doesn't go off too well; his head probably looks like a balloon -- it's been slow, okay, he hasn't been able to afford a decent hair cut recently -- and his teeth probably look huge.
But Karl, bless him, doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps sees Chris as some asexual being so doesn't care one way or the other about his gigantic head and horsey overbite.
"Erm…" Karl contemplates the board for a while, giving Chris ample time to catalogue today's outfit-- loose but still flattering black t-shirt, low-slung jeans. Chris can just imagine the happy trail involved behind the fabric. "Triple vanilla soy latte?"
He always says it like a question, looking to Chris for advice, like Chris is the expert on what should be going into Karl's mouth.
…well…
Chris clears his throat. "Sounds like a plan. Thirty-two ounce?" Karl nods, and Chris takes his money and makes the drink and they chat, about nothing, really, over the hissing of the machine and the pouring of liquids. Chris could do this job in his sleep by this point, and sometimes does--
But when he hands over the drink, the sight of the little heart tattooed on Karl's left ring finger is enough to wake him the fuck up, every time. When the bell tinkles over Karl's exit, Chris high-tails it, passing Zach with a muttered, "I'll be out back."
This time he must look particularly shat upon, because Zach actually reaches for his shoulder. "Hey. Let's go out tonight. Go make bad decisions."
Because we're not allowed to make good ones, Chris thinks.
"Sure, yeah. Okay." A cigarette later, he comes back in and forces Zach into a high five. "Fuck yeah."
---
The chart overflows the white-board within the month. When Chris gets to work the next day, he finds it blank, and nearly has a heart-attack -- and then sees tidy hand-drawn paper chart tacked up to the wall next to it, filled with Zach's ridiculous handwriting and--what the fuck--color-coded.
"You are so gay," he says out loud, even though Zach won't be in till mid-shift.
"Only on Tuesdays," comes a perky, masculine, and definitely Kiwi voice from in front of the counter. Chris tries not to fall down getting up to make his drink.
Today it's a half-caf no whip double pump mocha, and Chris almost laughs, because who the fuck drinks that shit and likes it, but Karl always looks so earnest, and it's just fucking adorable, so he refrains. And is rewarded when Karl's smile is bigger than ever, fucking dimples showing, even, and Chris feels his heart swell three sizes--yeah, just his heart, thanks, he's not fourteen--and then plummet into his shoes as soon as the door clinks behind Karl.
He goes to the back and gazes forlornly at the chart. Zach has not only color-coded days, Chris notes, but has left Chris post-its, so Zach can input new data later without Chris ruining the color scheme, or some shit.
He sighs, and scrawls the pertinent info on a post-it--orange for Thursday--then in frustration picks up a pink one, scrawls something on it, and sticks it at the top.
Dear Christopher: Stop wanting to lick Karl Urban! Karl Urban is not available for licking! Find some other outlet for your licking urges! No love, Christopher
---
A week later, Chris is setting things up for opening when he notices that the incriminating pink post-it note is gone. He stares at the now-blank spot for a moment, then it occurs to him--a horrible thought, a terrible horrible thought occurs to him--that Zach had waited on Karl the last time Karl'd been in.
Then he listens to the messages on the shop's machine, and one of them is Zach calling in for the day, saying he's got the runs or some shit.
Chris stares at the machine.
That meddling fucking queen.
Chris wants to punch everything in sight. But, again, he's not fourteen, and he knows from personal experience what a dumb decision that would be. Instead, he yanks down the chart and mashes it and several other papers into a ball before throwing them way too forcefully at the garbage can. And then he yells, as loudly as he can, into the empty shop.
"Zachary John Quinto, you are a fucking cunt!"
---
For the next few hours, every time the bell over the door tinkles, Chris wants to vomit. It doesn't tinkle very often--really no skin off anybody's back that Zach's not there--so no actual vomiting happens, but he does wander around the shop wiping down perfectly clean things rather spastically for much of the morning, anticipation killing him.
After a while, though, the roar dulls to a thrum, and Chris finds himself occupied by his latest song--this one sounds more like Everlast than Joni, and that's just offensive, but he has faith he can fix it--when somebody comes in. "Be with you in a sec," he calls out, and is too wrapped up in lyrics and chord progressions to notice he doesn't get a response, or to really have it register who's standing at the counter by the time he gets there.
Because it's Karl, of course.
Chris feels his face get hot. "Hey."
"Hey," Karl says back, a little hesitantly, and it's so awkward Chris wants to crawl under the damn counter.
Then Karl smiles at him, a different smile than normal, and Chris feels his brows draw together. He clears his throat, tries to rein the whole thing in. "What can I get for you today?"
"Well…" Karl doesn't even look up at the board. He's just looking at Chris. And Chris swears Karl's actually leaning in. Or perhaps it's just Karl's ridiculous animal magnetism, but today somehow the counter between them feels awfully small.
Chris tries not to clear his throat again. "Well?"
Karl takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, looks at the board then the counter then Chris then the counter again, then closes his mouth. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck.
And it dawns on Chris that the hottest guy in the world is nervous, and it's ridiculous and somehow really endearing, and he decides the throw the guy a rope. "Listen, Karl, about the--"
But Karl's holding up his hand, palm up in a 'stop' motion, and Chris stutters to a halt mid-sentence--
Because in Karl's palm is a post-it. This one's yellow, and there's blocky handwriting on it, three words Chris can't make out until he actually does lean over the counter:
AVAILABLE FOR LICKING
Chris huffs a laugh, pushed out of his lungs by his heart doing a fucking loop-de-loop, and falls back. Saying he's startled would be an understatement of gigantic proportions.
"I don't--" He can't even voice it. "I don't understand."
Karl looks a little flushed, and there's a little disappointment in his eyes. "I thought it was rather obvious…"
Chris grunts in frustration. "No, I mean, I get it, but--" He stops, then grabs Karl's wrist, removing the note and turning Karl's hand until the tattoo is prominent. "That. There's that."
Karl visibly relaxes. "There is that," he agrees.
Chris wants to punch him. Well, not really. But sort of. "That's not a small deal."
"It is now," Karl says quietly, with just a hint of sadness.
Chris looks at him for a moment. "Divorce?"
"Process of."
"That's still…" Chris tries to think, but Karl's still so close; the fucking counter feels like it's shrinking. "I'm shitty rebound material."
Karl almost smiles at that, his eyes soft. "Divorce takes two years back home, Chris."
Chris swallows. So close. "And it's been…?"
"Twenty months," Karl says, voice lowering as he moves in. "And I've lived here for longer."
"…oh." And their lips are inches apart, and Chris is trying to process that this is happening, really happening.
And then his baser instincts clearly have had enough processing, because he finds himself tipping forward to close the gap.
And fuck, it's even nicer than he thought it'd be. Karl's lips are plush as they look, and not too dry, and move over Chris's confidently, sweetly, respectfully. Of course respectfully, Chris thinks as his brain swirls around and his heart and lungs do a nice polka in his chest.
Finally, and way too soon, Karl pulls back, clearly mindful of the fact that they're in public even though Chris doesn't really give a fuck.
He opens his eyes to find Karl smiling at him, eyes heated and twinkling. "Phone me, all right?" And Chris realizes Karl is pushing a post-it into Chris's hand. Chris glances down long enough to see that it's got numbers on it. Karl's phone number, it seems.
Best. Day. Ever.
Chris knows his grin is stupid and his teeth must look fucking huge. And he doesn't fucking care. "This is where you give me some line admitting you came here only for me, because the coffee is actually shitty," he jokes, holding tightly to the post-it.
Karl grins. The god damn dimples show up again. He leans in and kisses Chris one more time, short and sweet. Chris feels a little light-headed. "Nah, fifty-fifty. The coffee's great."
"You fucker!"
Karl ducks Chris's badly aimed towel, then flashes a wicked grin over his shoulder. "Maybe later. If you're good." Then he winks at Chris, fucking winks, and takes his exit.
And Chris thinks the tinkle of the bell is the sweetest sound he's ever heard.
He might even forgive Zach.
Maybe.
FIN
Author: Thalia :D (thalialunacy)
Genre: Alternate Universe (!!) first time rom-com.
Rating: R for language and sexual innuendo.
Length: 2,110 words.
Summary: In which Chris and Zach are baristas, and Karl is a haphazardly-scheduled stunt coordinator. Featuring supergay!matchmaking!Zach, pining!Chris, and charminglyawkward!Karl.
Notes: Inspired by my own Tweet, and my own pathetic life. Thanks to Janice_lester for the New Zealand factoid.
Chris is thinking of starting a chart. An Excel spreadsheet, if you will. Column A: Day of the week. Column B: Time of day. Column C: kind of drink ordered. Column D: level of extreme hotness achieved by customer.
He settles for marking up the whiteboard one day during a slow shift.
Zach smirks at him. "No names? We're just remembering customers based solely on drink choice and physical beauty? My, aren't we fulfilling every southern California stereotype today."
"No, because I used my turn signals while driving here," Chris quips absently. At Zach's eyebrow, he shrugs and makes something up. "Just trying to see if I have a type."
"You're thirty-one. Of course you have a type." Zach's eyes glint as the bell above the door tinkles and Chris stands and glances at the clock. "And here he comes."
"Shut your face," Chris says, smacking Zach across the arm with his towel, then shoving it back into his back pocket.
"What?" Zach protests. "I like it when you're all puppy-eyed and stupid!"
"You're such a dick."
Zach bats his eyelashes.
"Plus, it could be someone el--"
"Anybody home?"
And the rounded 'o' of the Kiwi call signals a win for Zach. Chris looks at him pleadingly. "Oh no, he's all yours, Princess." He swats at Chris's ass with his own towel. "Now get a move on."
Chris wants to shout 'BOO YOU WHORE' but has to settle for throwing a muttered 'fuck you' over his shoulder as he walks back into the main room and up behind the counter.
Where the most beautiful man in the world is waiting for him. Swear to God. And Chris lives in Los Angeles; he's seen a lot of pretty people. But this one -- This one's not just pretty, he's… he's real. And not in a Pinocchio way but in a High Western sort of way: He's there to save the damsel in distress, would never lie to your mama, and always gives just the right amount of mercy to the bad guys.
He's fucking nice, and a little awkward, and looks like he stepped off a Hollywood set.
…which, well, he did.
His name is Karl Urban, and he's one of the hottest--triple entendre intended--stunt coordinators in Hollywood right now. And Chris Pine wants in his pants.
Which in itself is enough to make Zach mock him. Chris doesn't usually do dick. At least, not very often, and not really for serious. Just for play-play, because that's what you do when you're thirty-one and bored and write too much poetry for any self-respecting thirty-something, even one that works at a coffeehouse and is a staple at several open mic nights.
None of which, thank Christ, Karl has ever attended. Otherwise, he would've heard poetry--and possibly even a Joni Mitchell-esque song or two--about himself, and the ensuing emotional damage wrought upon Chris would've harshed even Zach's mellow.
"What'll it be today?" Chris asks, trying not to think about poetry or charts or anything vaguely related to Karl Urban's dick in his mouth. He tries to smile, too, but that probably doesn't go off too well; his head probably looks like a balloon -- it's been slow, okay, he hasn't been able to afford a decent hair cut recently -- and his teeth probably look huge.
But Karl, bless him, doesn't seem to notice. Or perhaps sees Chris as some asexual being so doesn't care one way or the other about his gigantic head and horsey overbite.
"Erm…" Karl contemplates the board for a while, giving Chris ample time to catalogue today's outfit-- loose but still flattering black t-shirt, low-slung jeans. Chris can just imagine the happy trail involved behind the fabric. "Triple vanilla soy latte?"
He always says it like a question, looking to Chris for advice, like Chris is the expert on what should be going into Karl's mouth.
…well…
Chris clears his throat. "Sounds like a plan. Thirty-two ounce?" Karl nods, and Chris takes his money and makes the drink and they chat, about nothing, really, over the hissing of the machine and the pouring of liquids. Chris could do this job in his sleep by this point, and sometimes does--
But when he hands over the drink, the sight of the little heart tattooed on Karl's left ring finger is enough to wake him the fuck up, every time. When the bell tinkles over Karl's exit, Chris high-tails it, passing Zach with a muttered, "I'll be out back."
This time he must look particularly shat upon, because Zach actually reaches for his shoulder. "Hey. Let's go out tonight. Go make bad decisions."
Because we're not allowed to make good ones, Chris thinks.
"Sure, yeah. Okay." A cigarette later, he comes back in and forces Zach into a high five. "Fuck yeah."
---
The chart overflows the white-board within the month. When Chris gets to work the next day, he finds it blank, and nearly has a heart-attack -- and then sees tidy hand-drawn paper chart tacked up to the wall next to it, filled with Zach's ridiculous handwriting and--what the fuck--color-coded.
"You are so gay," he says out loud, even though Zach won't be in till mid-shift.
"Only on Tuesdays," comes a perky, masculine, and definitely Kiwi voice from in front of the counter. Chris tries not to fall down getting up to make his drink.
Today it's a half-caf no whip double pump mocha, and Chris almost laughs, because who the fuck drinks that shit and likes it, but Karl always looks so earnest, and it's just fucking adorable, so he refrains. And is rewarded when Karl's smile is bigger than ever, fucking dimples showing, even, and Chris feels his heart swell three sizes--yeah, just his heart, thanks, he's not fourteen--and then plummet into his shoes as soon as the door clinks behind Karl.
He goes to the back and gazes forlornly at the chart. Zach has not only color-coded days, Chris notes, but has left Chris post-its, so Zach can input new data later without Chris ruining the color scheme, or some shit.
He sighs, and scrawls the pertinent info on a post-it--orange for Thursday--then in frustration picks up a pink one, scrawls something on it, and sticks it at the top.
Dear Christopher: Stop wanting to lick Karl Urban! Karl Urban is not available for licking! Find some other outlet for your licking urges! No love, Christopher
---
A week later, Chris is setting things up for opening when he notices that the incriminating pink post-it note is gone. He stares at the now-blank spot for a moment, then it occurs to him--a horrible thought, a terrible horrible thought occurs to him--that Zach had waited on Karl the last time Karl'd been in.
Then he listens to the messages on the shop's machine, and one of them is Zach calling in for the day, saying he's got the runs or some shit.
Chris stares at the machine.
That meddling fucking queen.
Chris wants to punch everything in sight. But, again, he's not fourteen, and he knows from personal experience what a dumb decision that would be. Instead, he yanks down the chart and mashes it and several other papers into a ball before throwing them way too forcefully at the garbage can. And then he yells, as loudly as he can, into the empty shop.
"Zachary John Quinto, you are a fucking cunt!"
---
For the next few hours, every time the bell over the door tinkles, Chris wants to vomit. It doesn't tinkle very often--really no skin off anybody's back that Zach's not there--so no actual vomiting happens, but he does wander around the shop wiping down perfectly clean things rather spastically for much of the morning, anticipation killing him.
After a while, though, the roar dulls to a thrum, and Chris finds himself occupied by his latest song--this one sounds more like Everlast than Joni, and that's just offensive, but he has faith he can fix it--when somebody comes in. "Be with you in a sec," he calls out, and is too wrapped up in lyrics and chord progressions to notice he doesn't get a response, or to really have it register who's standing at the counter by the time he gets there.
Because it's Karl, of course.
Chris feels his face get hot. "Hey."
"Hey," Karl says back, a little hesitantly, and it's so awkward Chris wants to crawl under the damn counter.
Then Karl smiles at him, a different smile than normal, and Chris feels his brows draw together. He clears his throat, tries to rein the whole thing in. "What can I get for you today?"
"Well…" Karl doesn't even look up at the board. He's just looking at Chris. And Chris swears Karl's actually leaning in. Or perhaps it's just Karl's ridiculous animal magnetism, but today somehow the counter between them feels awfully small.
Chris tries not to clear his throat again. "Well?"
Karl takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, looks at the board then the counter then Chris then the counter again, then closes his mouth. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck.
And it dawns on Chris that the hottest guy in the world is nervous, and it's ridiculous and somehow really endearing, and he decides the throw the guy a rope. "Listen, Karl, about the--"
But Karl's holding up his hand, palm up in a 'stop' motion, and Chris stutters to a halt mid-sentence--
Because in Karl's palm is a post-it. This one's yellow, and there's blocky handwriting on it, three words Chris can't make out until he actually does lean over the counter:
AVAILABLE FOR LICKING
Chris huffs a laugh, pushed out of his lungs by his heart doing a fucking loop-de-loop, and falls back. Saying he's startled would be an understatement of gigantic proportions.
"I don't--" He can't even voice it. "I don't understand."
Karl looks a little flushed, and there's a little disappointment in his eyes. "I thought it was rather obvious…"
Chris grunts in frustration. "No, I mean, I get it, but--" He stops, then grabs Karl's wrist, removing the note and turning Karl's hand until the tattoo is prominent. "That. There's that."
Karl visibly relaxes. "There is that," he agrees.
Chris wants to punch him. Well, not really. But sort of. "That's not a small deal."
"It is now," Karl says quietly, with just a hint of sadness.
Chris looks at him for a moment. "Divorce?"
"Process of."
"That's still…" Chris tries to think, but Karl's still so close; the fucking counter feels like it's shrinking. "I'm shitty rebound material."
Karl almost smiles at that, his eyes soft. "Divorce takes two years back home, Chris."
Chris swallows. So close. "And it's been…?"
"Twenty months," Karl says, voice lowering as he moves in. "And I've lived here for longer."
"…oh." And their lips are inches apart, and Chris is trying to process that this is happening, really happening.
And then his baser instincts clearly have had enough processing, because he finds himself tipping forward to close the gap.
And fuck, it's even nicer than he thought it'd be. Karl's lips are plush as they look, and not too dry, and move over Chris's confidently, sweetly, respectfully. Of course respectfully, Chris thinks as his brain swirls around and his heart and lungs do a nice polka in his chest.
Finally, and way too soon, Karl pulls back, clearly mindful of the fact that they're in public even though Chris doesn't really give a fuck.
He opens his eyes to find Karl smiling at him, eyes heated and twinkling. "Phone me, all right?" And Chris realizes Karl is pushing a post-it into Chris's hand. Chris glances down long enough to see that it's got numbers on it. Karl's phone number, it seems.
Best. Day. Ever.
Chris knows his grin is stupid and his teeth must look fucking huge. And he doesn't fucking care. "This is where you give me some line admitting you came here only for me, because the coffee is actually shitty," he jokes, holding tightly to the post-it.
Karl grins. The god damn dimples show up again. He leans in and kisses Chris one more time, short and sweet. Chris feels a little light-headed. "Nah, fifty-fifty. The coffee's great."
"You fucker!"
Karl ducks Chris's badly aimed towel, then flashes a wicked grin over his shoulder. "Maybe later. If you're good." Then he winks at Chris, fucking winks, and takes his exit.
And Chris thinks the tinkle of the bell is the sweetest sound he's ever heard.
He might even forgive Zach.
Maybe.
FIN