#but i generally feel like i'm bothering people because i in my customer service days dreaded human interaction

[thistransient]

For the past two years there's been a zodiac themed display of fun postcards designed by a variety of artists in the gift shop of the Museum of Contemporary Art. Looking forward to the Year of the Dragon, I'd been planning to go for a while and finally headed over. To my dismay it was not there! However, I was prepared to undertake one of my favourite activities, pestering an unsuspecting employee about it in Mandarin. Props to that man, who actually made a phone call to somebody about it, who called him back after investigating, whereupon he wrote down an address and phone number for me, because it turned out the whole thing was not organised by the museum but by a print shop. He suggested I call them first, but he was unaware that my least favourite activity is calling strangers on the phone in Mandarin, plus the location was only a ten minute walk away. The museum itself seemed plagued by an unusual amount of tourists and school children today, so I decided to skip the whole thing and go on this quest.

I was rewarded en route by a street full of seasonal decoration shops preparing all the shiny things for Chinese New Year (is this not also a kind of modern art??), and a wander down some alleys I would never have otherwise wandered down. Finally I found the place, Retro Jam 印刷, which to my good fortune had the sought-after postcards on obvious display. They seem to do all manner of screen and risograph printing, and also sell supplies and prints. I can't speak to the quality of services but I had a great time poking around in the latter. Across the street was a place called Risograph Museum, which as far as I can tell was unrelated to Retro Jam, and was not a museum but a small shop of prints and cute items where I also flipped through cards to my heart's content (apparently the main Risograph Museum with printing services is in Taichung).

Afterwards I had ambitions to go to IKEA and get a duvet cover for an IKEA duvet I'd come into the possession of recently (via a friend distributing loot household items before moving back overseas), so I walked to Beimen Station when hunger struck. I am not the kind of person who can simply walk into a strange restaurant. Usually it requires extensive investigation and two to three back-up schemes, which is not really something I care to do while sitting outside the metro by a noisy intersection. The primary way to streamline this procedure is to focus solely on curry. There was a place called Curry Lab. Tokyo (with the punctuation, yes) conveniently near IKEA, and it had a solid 5 stars, which induces suspicion because that generally means the place gives some discount or bribe for good reviews, but I chanced my luck.

It was dishearteningly dark within when I got there despite being 16:31 (with 16:30 opening hours listed) but the employees were present and the door was open, so I asked exactly when business commenced and they turned on the light and told me to sit down.

Lo and behold, I really would rate it as one of the top 5 Japanese style curries I've had. Something about the spices and the onions. I was impressed. I even indulged in a pudding afterwards, which was equally delightful.

Google Maps' estimation of the crowd level at IKEA had me a bit wary but it was pretty empty and I had a grand time feeling the fabrics, sniffing the scented candles, and restraining myself from purchasing an orb to ponder (I already have a lantern at home, one spherical glowing light fixture is enough unless I move into a bigger place). I even got the duvet cover I went there for and nothing else!

(imagine how immense my willpower must be in the face of these, for 499元 🙀)

When I finally got out it was rush hour and thus time to squish into the MRT like sardines. I have lived here long enough to have no qualms about moving people who will not move themselves. No more timid 不好意思 from this 外國人, it is time to 讓開! (Perhaps I give myself more credit than I'm due in terms of audacity, as more often than not the wave of humanity entering the train car behind me would propel me forward one way or another, I've simply learned to proactively embrace that inevitability.)

I've been feeling unexpectedly resilient regarding going out and doing things lately, although it may be because in going out I'm procrastinating on what I should be doing at home (although I am still thinking about it and making notes while walking around). In this way being outside feels more like a break instead of a torment 🤔 We'll see how long it lasts, but I might as well enjoy it.

[pikechris]

people are sometimes surprised when I say that I actually like my job in a service station deli. well first of all this is ireland, 98% of customer interactions are polite and pleasant and the worst thing that can happen to me personally is when we get a bus full of teenagers who want chicken fillet rolls. or even worse, two in one day. happened this tuesday. but also i've found that it's actually perfect for my autism/adhd brain because:

I do the same things every day. there are tasks that have to be done every day and tasks that have to be done every week on a specific day. perfect. it's the thing others complain about the most, but me? just how I prefer it

constantly moving and doing something is what keeps me stimulated and staves off boredom aka the worst feeling ever. it gets pretty busy sometimes, which, ideal! I haven't had to touch a stim toy for MONTHS because I put all that excess energy to violently scrubbing dishes

I'm honestly the perfect employee because when I happen to have nothing to do I look for things to clean and tidy and shit and if that doesn't help I ask the manager for extra tasks to keep those hands occupied lol

re: previous point. I'm Fast so I always do everything that needs to be done, too. mostly because my brain takes the rules seriously and when the paperwork says I have to do something. well then I'll bloody well do it won't I. it says it right there. they like me because they know I'm reliable unlike the students who do weekends and even exceed expectations sometimes hah

clear instructions, love em. here I always know what to do and how to do it

the customer interactions follow a similar pattern and are almost always the same so I know what to say and ask and it's not stressful

sometimes people ask me where to find things and such and I Iove a) knowing things and being somebody who knows them and b) telling people about something I know, so it doesn't bother me

there's a whole bunch of safety compliance paperwork tasks like taking temperatures of food every hour that everyone finds annoying. but I love numbers and measuring things and statistics!! it's like ooh I wonder what's the temperature of this soup?? and then I stick a probe in there and find out and write it down! neat. tracking how quickly things cool down in the hot counter is entertaining

there's always 50 things to do at once. I will start 10 at a time. it works out fine. I can check the task list to see if I did it and tick it off. adhd kept in check ✓

others repeat the customers' orders to them to make sure they're getting it right so when I do it because echolalia & needing it to process the information, it goes unnoticed!!

I hate silence so the constant noise of the ovens and the radio and such are a good background noise. plus no one minds when I sing along to the radio as a stim because everyone does it, which is also why I feel safe enough to do so in the first place

no seriously doing stuff gives me energy, so I'm not tired after an 8.5 hour shift (this is even an observation others have made) and still can do the shopping, cook dinner, cook lunch for next day and be busy until midnight. something I couldn't do when studying, which was an energy drainer. huh

(I haven't had this much energy and motivation to do things since I was a CHILD. I'm not joking. I also haven't had a shutdown or anxiety attack or even a bad day in ages since I moved and started working. lying in bed depressed and feeling like I can't breathe? don't know her. also I can actually fall asleep immediately. my brain just shuts down. a feeling I haven't known for years. what is this magic)

I get to put things in the oven and make pizzas and bread and scones from scratch and generally do things I like and am good at and get paid for it! fuck yeah baking!!

I get to clean and put things in order and organise stock and the cold room and freezers and implement Systems and make things Full and GET PAID FOR IT

regular shifts 10-18, perfect, I don't have to get up too early either. allows for going to sleep at midnight and still getting the sweet eight hours

everybody is kind of doing their own thing most of the time and we're all busy so I'm not required to talk to my coworkers if I don't want to. but I can if I do. we all get along well. also good

sometimes I have an issue remembering how many fillings I put in that person's wrap if I wasn't paying that much attention but it's fine, if I charge them 40c less no one will know. there is no failing and no points deducted for a wrong answer. it's chill, no anxiety induced

I'm mostly on my own from 11:30ish until the end, the deli is my kingdom, I make the decisions, no one is in the way, I like it. I like it less when it's busy but I'm capable of handling it either way so eh *shrug*

i have a very good memory (when I do pay attention) so when there are regulars who order the same one or two things I remember them fast and now it's like. white wrap, peppers and plain chicken? and they're like. yeah!! :) I get to make someone happy with something so simple :)

sometimes people eat truly bizarre sandwiches and stuff and I get to internally laugh and/or wonder what the fuck is that. sometimes we actually do laugh about it after. it's fun

I'm also apparently the best new person they've ever had in this shop because I learn extremely fast so that's nice to hear lmao

i easily follow safety regulations such as wearing gloves at all times because dirty dishes and wet bits of food in the sink and raw meat and greasy utensils and sticky bread dough and the inside of the oven mitts are yucky to touch so that's another win-win for them and me

if not the company owner then at least the shop and deli managers are amazing. they will tell you to take any wastage you want without paying for it (because that is a stupid rule that exists that everyone thinks is nonsense and ignores. what's the difference if an out of date bag of crisps goes in the bin or is eaten?) just don't tell the boss, and will go out for drinks with you, and act like normal human beings who are a delight to work with

as a christmas bonus we all got a €50 one4all gift card which everyone thought was sort of shite and useless but are you kidding me? that means a free coffee machine. I got a free coffee machine with it. and a big discount on noise-cancelling wireless earbuds that are actually good and have a long battery life. amazing I'm telling you

yes we get the minimum wage but as someone who never worked or had much money I can live so well off of it? i can comfortably pay for rent and electricity and two grocery shoppings a week that aren't cheap, put a bunch aside, buy some treats online when I feel like it, go places every other week, and still have enough left. I flew to london in december just because. spent £130 on a concert ticket to the o2. I visit places that are a bit further away and stay a night or two once a month. I feel like I eat like a king when I have stuff like homemade bread with avocado spread, homemade cake, fresh strawberries and stuff for breakfast all the time. and that's just for cleaning and making sandwiches?? it sometimes feels unreal to me that I do it for money at all. it's like. housework. things I do anyway all the time at home. I have no reason to complain lol

anyway this is just how I personally feel :') but yeah I like working? who'd have thought. not me. I also feel like I'm the only one there who does. or anywhere really. because I'm so used to retail and service jobs being connected with annoyance and hate and doing them out of necessity etc etc... so I wanted to share that little bit of positive experience I guess. and needed to rant about it somewhere.

is it weird that working 42 hours a week in a shop improved my mental health? probably. but I also get it and can't believe I didn't figure it out earlier because. it's the moving lads. I'm in a constant state of busy. once I stop doing things and start lying in bed all day it goes downhill and the energy and motivation don't come back. but now? that's impossible. even on weekends. I can't put off the ironing because I need the uniform. I have to cook because I can't live on cheese toasties and the veg in the fridge is gonna go off if I don't use it. I have to travel because there's nothing to do in town except lying in bed all day. and once I make a Plan, not even the rain or having to get up at 6:30 to catch the morning bus stops me from following it. and I don't mean that in a stressful grind culture way, I mean it in a helpful actually-it's-pretty-slow-and-quiet way! I found a way of hacking the executive dysfunction completely by accident here and. it's a job

[catullus16]

Hello, hope I'm not bothering you. I got a job in Japan (I'm Italian) and I've never been there before and my Japanese is N5 level (I am trying to study). I am moving in two months (I already got the accomodation covered by my company) and although I know things of Japan, because I've have always watched movies anime Yadda Yadda. I wanted to ask. Was it very difficult to adapt once you first moved? I know you had your husband but did you have moments of anxiety? What did you do to feel more comfortable? I am very anxious. It's not the first time I live abroad one but first time in Asia.

not bothering me at all!!

things were a little scary at first, for sure. i was always afraid of running into misunderstandings with people because of the language barrier but the more i practiced japanese the more my confidence grew. you definitely don't need to know all that much to get by day-to-day (customer service interactions all basically follow the same script). i prioritized learning speaking and listening skills over kanji, (which some may consider a huge mistake that i'm paying for now T__T) but it helped me get to a conversational level much faster. so that now if i can't read a sign or menu or something, i can just ask someone what it says.

i have a lot more i can say so imma pop in a read more

when i first moved here another thing that scared me was how much i stood out (especially cus the country was in covid lockdown at the time so there were no foreign tourists so i looked super out of place). to feel more comfortable i kind of studied how women in tokyo dressed and for a while tried to mirror it (i also have dark straight hair and brown eyes and am really short and everyone was still wearing masks at the time so it was really easy for me to blend in), though now that i'm more confident i mostly dress like a time traveling wizard that would look out of place almost anywhere haha.

also people here are generally very kind, patient, and eager to help. the more you get out and explore and interact with people the more the anxiety will fade away, so the first few weeks where you have but little experience and the mind is free to catastrophize might be tough but it will only get easier and easier. i'd say studying people's mannerisms and ways of doing things (train etiquette is very particular), and knowing how to do those things will also help with the anxiety. but no one is too bothered if you commit a faux-pas, so don't worry too much about accidentally doing something wrong, people tend to be super forgiving! but for me, accidentally doing something wrong was a huge fear.

i'd also say definitely avoid reading reddit boards or twitter pages about "being a gaijin in japan" or whatever cus a lot of those people are really bitter and reading it scared me a lot when i first moved here, but i've found very little of what they've said to be of any substance.

the hardest part is definitely socializing and making friends but it is completely possible and will help a lot! i joined a kimono class with my mother in law around a year and a half ago and everyone there is so kind and friendly and they have lots of social events. there are also inter-cultural events that municipal centers will host sometimes, and i've seen a few "english speaking" cafes where you can meet locals who want to practice english. i did try a language exchange app once (i think it was hellotalk) but since i had to upload a photo of myself for the profile, literally 99.9% of the people who messaged me were guys looking for a foreign gf (even though i put that i'm married in my bio) so use those at your own discretion haha.

i'm definitely very lucky though to have a japanese husband and very sweet in-laws who can help me, but i have lots of other foreign friends who came here all on their own and are doing great! like any country, it has its problems, but japan is a really nice place to live and i feel very lucky to be here!

i hope you too can enjoy your experience living here! if you have any other questions about living in japan please feel welcome to ask, i'm happy to share what i know!

[purplesurveys]

1741

1. Is there currently any snow on the ground where you live? Where I live has never seen snow ever.

2. Do you have any nieces or nephews? I don't. I don't think any of my siblings want to be parents either, so I feel like the most I'll have are godchildren from my friends.

3. Have you ever sold anything online? I've sold a few photocards, but that's it. I'd love to try my hand more in selling but I'm just so busy as it is and have little to no time to even respond if inquiries come in. Then there's the effort in making some sort of microsite like Carrd so you look legit, the time and resources needed to pack the orders, then booking the shipping service...I'm just way too busy to become a full-time seller.

4. Have you ever been to an extremely dirty house before? Whose house was it? I don't think I've ever been in a dirty house per se but I've visited families or classmates whose houses are just loaded/packed with so many things in one place. Filipinos like to hoard stuff, so a typical Filipino living room would have things like graduation portraits and diplomas lining up the wall, every single medal their kids have won, religious statues, a bunch of miniature art sculptures that don't necessarily complement, a china collection...the list goes on. Like it's not messy, but it's filled to the brim with so many things that it ends up being an eyesore.

This applies to most households I know of but I'm glad my mom didn't pick up that tendency. She likes to keep the house looking clear and I've ultimately picked up that preference too.

5. Would you ever or do you hunt? It doesn't sound interesting to me in the least and I wouldn't do it.

6. Have you ever blown smoke into a bubble (kids bubbles) before? No. Is something supposed to happen when you do that? Hahaha now you have me curious.

7. What bothers you most about the customers you serve at work? If you don’t directly serve customers at work, what bothers you most about your job in general? It makes work-life balance a myth. Even things like people getting to turn off their notifications in the evening make me jealous because I can't do that – I have to be on call literally, like, 24/7.

8. Do you like to play games on your phone? What games do you play most often? Sure. These days I've been pretty obsessed with Rhythm Hive, which is a (surprise!) rhythm game for Hybe groups. I used to be addicted to In the Seom but I haven't played that in a while. :( I should reinstall that soon...

9. Do you take a lot of pictures of your pets? Of course. I'll whip out my phone every chance I get.

10. Do you screen shot a lot of things on your phone? Way more than I think I do. It's just second nature for me to do so at this point, especially if I feel like I'll need to backtrack on that screenshot sometime in the future.

11. What is the most recent video you took of? Cooper barking threateningly at a nonexistent stranger/noise.

12. Do you have any future tattoos planned out? Will you actually go through with them or is there something stopping you from doing so? I have design ideas but they will always remain as ideas because I'm terrified of needles lol.

13. Who was the last person to break your trust? How did they do so and how did you deal with it? The supplier we got for our event last Thursday. They've been our go-to since last year, never disappointed us, the team's always been a joy to work with; but idk they've had quite a bit of booboos over the last few months and last Thursday was simply mine and my team's last straw. They were extremely unreliable on the day of and for some reason their manpower kept disappearing at crucial points? - like where tf were they hanging out??? - that I had no choice but to manage the entire event myself until the end.

14. What did you dress up as for Halloween? Or if you didn’t dress up, was there a specific reason or do you just not care about that sort of thing? I went to one Halloween party last year, which was Disney-themed, so I DIY'd some clothes to be Winnie the Pooh.

15. Has wind ever done any extreme damage to your home or anything that you own? No. That happened to our neighborhood once though. There had been a typhoon that started off with extremely strong winds, and you could hear windows smashing and glass shattering every minute or so. Fortunately for us we had all of our windows closed that morning so our house was left unscathed.

16. Is your pet very snuggly or are they more independent? Agi lives on being snuggled, and he isn't opposed to whining and barking if he feels like he's not getting enough of it. Cooper is very independent; he'll actively wrestle out of your grasp if you try to cuddle with him haha. Kimi had independent as well.

17. What shirt were you wearing the last time you took a picture of yourself? A white oversized polo with handpainted doodles.

18. Do you enjoy Smile Cookies from Tim Hortons or any of their other charities and/or seasonal promotions? If you don’t go to Tim Hortons, do you dislike the coffee, live too far away from one, or is there another reason? I don't think I've ever eaten anything from Tim Hortons beyond their wraps.

19. Are the photos on your lock screen and on your homepage of your phone the same or different? If you don’t have that option on your phone, what is your background on your phone? They are different, yes. I feel like it'd so boring if they were the same.

20. Do you enjoy taking photos with your significant other or are you just not that type of couple? If you don’t have a significant other, do you enjoy taking photos of yourself more or of your friends and/or family? I definitely take more photos of other people than I do myself.

[royaltyoon]

hiiiii! Joongoo and Jonggun as sugar daddies, but reader is strong, proud and independent woman! hcs please? (´∀｀)♡

Thank you for the request (つ≧▽≦)つ I hope this is what you had in mind.

HEAD CANONS

Sugar daddy headcanon

[A/N]

I've been calling them gun and goo for like a year now. I swear, jonggun and joongoo sound like completely different people to me.

Gun:

Showering you with gifts and presents was his love language.

Love and affection? Please. Even gun knew he wasn't capable of displaying more than three emotions.

To him, you were his priority. But other than showing how much you mean to him by buying you expensive stuff he knew no other way to convey his feelings.

And he sure as hell wasn't liking the fact that now, you wouldn't even let him buy you anything.

It led to a number of childish arguments, which gun wasn't proud of.

"I don't need you money, gun."

"I can't hear you, princess."

"I. Don't. Need. You. To. Spend. Your. Money. On. Me."

"still can't hear you."

"I don't nee- "blah blah blah, I still don't hear you."

Gun used 'blah blah blah'. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed shaking his head in disappointment for his own self.

If you ever mention an object randomly during a conversation, it'll be home delivered to you the next day.

He didn't care how expensive it was, he had enough zeros in his bank account that could buy his next three generations an easy and luxurious life.

You often liked to leisurely roam malls during your free time, you didn't need to buy anything but you just liked looking at what was new and trendy in the fashion world.

God forbid if gun ever joined you, you'd come home with a quarter of the mall in your bags.

You had to get stern with him, because his stubborn ass would just never listen.

But the next time he joined you, he bought himself a ton of stuff just so he can show that the stuff he bought you costed lower than what he brought himself.

Even spelling it out to him didn't seem to penetrate his thick skull, so you took extreme measures.

"princess, are you really not gonna talk to me till I don't return the stuff back?"

"....."

"I'm not gonna fall for the silent treatment."

"......"

"fine, I'll return it tomorrow. Just so you know, its not very classy for someone to return stuff they brought. I'm ready to taint my reputation for you. You've gotta love me after this."

"And I do."

All in all, he loved how independent you were, if something ever happened to him, he knew you would be able to handle yourself.

You weren't naive so he didn't have to worry too much about you.

BONUS:

Gun called out your name, gaining your attention. He slowly opened a small velvet box, revealing a beautiful ring with a diamond settled atop it. You already knew it would cost more than the number you had in mind.

Your eyes rolled and a sigh escaped your lips. "I already told you I don't need you to buy me anymore jewelry. I have enough. Return that back."

He just blinked at you blankly for two seconds, "Princess. I'm proposing."

Goo:

Much like gun, goo had the habbit of purchasing stuff without a glance at the price tag.

Goo loved money, if there's anything he took seriously, it was money.

But he didn't hesitate for a second before spending it.

"I worked for it, so I get to spend it however I want." He always said that.

Limits? Pfft, this man had no limits.

He would buy you stuff before the words would even leave your mouth.

"Goo, I want-

"A dress? Okaaay, I just brought a dress I think would look good on you. It delivers at home tomorrow, so make sure to recieve it."

"what the. No i-

"you need jewelry? Hold on. This might take a while, oh there you go it's done. It'll be deliver- wait! What does this mean by no home delivery?? They expect us to walk in there and personally buy it? Why even bother having an online website? What kind of customer service is this?!"

"Goo."

"yes, sweetheart."

"..... I just wanted you to go buy some bread."

If you ever told him that he didn't have to buy you anything and that you could afford it in your own. He would be over the top dramatic about it.

Also, he would probably get anxious about why you ask him not to buy you stuff, so you will have to reassure him every once in a while.

"listen to me you, rich fool."

"yes, sweetheart." He spoke through his smushed cheeks between your two palms. "I don't need you to buy me a penthouse."

"but why? You should have a place to live."

"I'm not homeless, I literally live with you here. So I don't need you to buy me anything."

"You don't like me anymore, sweetheart, is that what this is?"

"how did you even reach that conclusion?? I literally live with you."

"Then, is that penthouse too small, I did think it wa-

"I don't need you to spend your money on me."

"You don't need my money? Then why are you dating me?"

"I'm dating you because I like you not your money."

"yeah, that doesn't sound right."

You will probably need a lot more reassuring for him to finally realise that you aren't in this relationship for the money.

Even after he gets it, he will probably be just as dramatic as he was before.

You will also have to teach him now to manage his money and spend in limits.

BONUS:

"uh-oh what'd I do now?" He questions as he walked into your shared room looking at the glare you're giving him.

"That." You point your finger to a small box placed at the table. Goo's eyes widened at the sight of the tiny velvet case.

"I found that while cleaning. Did I not tell you to stop buying anymore jewelry?" You glare at him with crossed hands and legs.

"sweetheart. That's a wedding ring. I was planning on proposing. Now that's a surprise ruined."

[pink-doll-lips]

So I've been very unhappy with my job for a while. It does occasionally have some okay moments, I like one area of the work I'm doing. The issue is two fold I think. Like the culture and management here are def part of the problem and something I want to get away from. But it's also this field of work. I work in IT, I started off doing support work, and no matter what else I've taken on here, I'm still doing support work which I super hate. In general, I don't like and I'm not that good at anything more technical IT related. I have liked enterprise service management a lot, so like that's been about working with other departments to turn their business processes into services with a formal intake place and more automated workflows. I've really liked that I get to help improve people's ability to do and manage their day to day work. I like working with them to understand what they are doing and what the pain points are and developing a structured way to handle the work that helps to address all their concerns. I like that a lot, and I'm good at it, that's basically what I was invited to speak about at a conference.

But I'm still way unhappy here, and when I've tried job hunting I've really struggled to get anywhere with work like that. I'm going to try again some now that I have a speaking engagement on my resume. But I'm not optimistic.

So I've been trying to think about what else I want to do, because I think a bit of a career change would be good, since I do want to get further away from IT. So I took a handful of career related quizzes and also spent time thinking about what it is I've liked with work. I think I'm writing this all down more for myself to collect the information than I am like doing it for sharing. But like if anyone bothers to read all of this and has any insight or advice or whatever, I totallllly welcome it.

Here's what info I've collected:

On one career interest profiler, I scored highest in Social followed by Artistic. Social was described as liking working with others to help them learn and grow, and prefer working with people over objects, machines, or information. And that they like: teaching, giving advice, and helping and being of service to people. That feels like me. A lot of the careers they brought up were related to some kind of teacher, social worker, therapist, training & development, community service management-y stuff.

I took a big 5 personality test and got:

Openness 54%

Conscientiousness 54%

Extraversion 40%

Agreeableness 65%

Neuroticism 67%

I took a myers-brigg thing again and got ISFP-T. I used to usually get INTJ or occasionally INTP so that's a bit of change. Maybe this new one was less accurate, or maybe that's a reflection of how I've been changing.

And I took one more career quiz, that broke things down by type of work I may enjoy most like:

Enterprising 40%

Helping 33%

Administrative 13%

Creative 13%

Analytical 0%

Practical 0%

And matched me with careers like: training and development professionals, child care center manager, human resource managers, funeral worker, conference and event organizer, education managers, personal service workers, call center and customer service worker and manager, corporate services manager, general manager, hospitality manager, travel attendants, tour guide

And when I took time to think about what I like from the work I've done, this is what my list looks like: Stable predictable hours, helping people, making people happy, training, teaching, service/workflow management, processes and procedures, organization, org. change management, and like being a resource on information people want, I guess like being a useful source? Idk.

Oh and like if you read this all and are thinking of being advice-y at all, some backgroud, I've worked in IT about 6 years now, mainly in support roles. I’m currently like working at place related to education and fundraising. I have a BS in computer science and a Masters in Health Informatics. I have an ITIL Foundation cert and am a Six Sigma Green Belt (likely soon a black belt, I need to finish the course). More graduating college, I had done work like waiting tables, catering, like hotel cater/server thing idk, and very briefly some front desk work. There soo much time where I feel like I'd be happier going back to work like that but managing that much of a pay cut would be hard.

[thirium-delirium]

hello again! as already mentioned: your stories are reallyreally great 😍👍 and ooooh I'm so happy you're taking x-Reader requests! I'd be very excited if you could write a Connor x Reader story where the reader is rather sceptic about androids. he/she doesn't like that they become more humanoid and is especially annoyed of Connor. but at some point Connor does something that turnes the readers opinion around and he/she falls in love with him

combination of these two requests. COFFEE SHOP AU.

6.5k words.

In the chaos of the morning rush, you hadn’t noticed him come in. Hadn’t spotted the tell-tale luminescent blue accents on his CyberLife-issued jacket as you pinballed between the register and the service counter and the three drip machines against the wall under the chalkboard menu.

You place an espresso and a whipped-cream doused latte on the counter, calling out the orders over the din.

“Espresso for Melissa, latte with whipped cream and three pumps of vanilla for Xiong!”

Don’t wait to see them get snatched up before you’re on to the next customers, maintaining the precarious, hectic rhythm of brewing, counting out change, and serving.

Greeting every customer with a smile is a challenge. Your feet hurt already, there’s no chance of a break in sight. You’d opened at 6am, and you’re the only one here right now, three hours later. The only staff the owner of Has-Bean can afford.

Still, it’s a job. A decently-paying job, and there’s a set of Detroiters who make it a point to support human-owned and -run businesses. You have regulars who greet you by name, ask how things are going, drop a dollar in the tip jar even though for some of them a cup of coffee is, itself, a luxury.

You grab some empty cups that people have bussed to the counter, toss them in the sink where dirty dishes have already piled high, reassuring yourself that the crowds will die down enough within half an hour that you can make a getaway to the restroom.  

“Good morning.”

You hear a pleasant voice from behind you, and turn, wiping your hands on the rag tucked in the front pocket of your apron. “Hi, welcome—“

Android. Your throat tightens. He’s tall, brown haired. ‘RK800’ is emblazoned on the right breast of his jacket; a model you don’t recognize, though you can’t bring yourself to study him closely. There’s no rule against him being in here, of course. Not anymore. “What can I get you?” You ask tersely, unable to muster your usual warmth.

“One large black coffee, please.”

“Name?”

“My name is Connor.”

“For here or to-go?”

“To-go, please.”

You ring it up, resolutely not making eye contact. There’s no point anyway. People come here for the human touch, the android-free atmosphere.

How’s he even going to pay? Androids don’t carry cash, they pay by linking wirelessly with other androids. “That’ll be four fifty including the city fee for the disposable cup and lid.” Here it comes, he’ll have to ask, don’t you accept link transfers, and you’ll get the petty satisfaction of telling him no—

“This should cover it.” He places a crisp five dollar bill on the counter, which you take, punch in the amount on the antique cash register, count out his change. Fifty cents back, and you note with absent interest that one of the two quarters you slide to him on the counter is rare, and old—an eagle on it instead of the newer designs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you turn away, busy fixing his order, and moving on to the line that’s accumulated while he slowed you down.

Even so, making brief, comfortable conversation with Julie, a regular, you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

“Bizarre, aren’t they?” Julie remarks in an undertone. “Now that they’re more human?”

You nod, starting her drink, which you know by heart, before taking her cash and giving back the appropriate change. “First one I’ve ever gotten in here, even after the referendum. He’s alone, too.”

He thanks you again when you put the large black coffee out for him; you only raise your eyes when he takes it and turns to go. The crowd parts for him, and you glimpse him in profile: handsome, impeccably neat, and pleasantly mild, though there’s a keenness to him. As he makes his way out the door, you get the impression that not very much escapes his notice.

“It’s gotta be a one-off.”

“Some wealthy asshole was in the area, wanted coffee, and sent his android to get it for him.”

Your regulars offer their opinions one-by-one, and you listen, nodding impassively, until it devolves to an argument among several about whether there are any androids left who willingly serve people since the deviant uprising. Then you tune out, the rush dies down, you finally tackle the overfull sink, hoping that the strange, polite android had just been a one-time thing.

He was cute. The thought pops in your mind, as unwelcome as his unexpected appearance had been. You shove it away, along with the lingering unease that androids always bring.

Later, at the end of your shift, you take the contents of the tip jar. Owner’s policy, for which you’re always grateful, because if there’s enough you get to eat two meals a day instead of one. You count out all of it: a five and nine ones. Enough for something cheap. A handful of coins, too, and as you pile the quarters in stacks of four, you note, with a strange jolt of curiosity, the rare eagle. Rare enough that it must be the same one you’d handed as change earlier to that android.

You keep it. Not one to hang on to spare change, but it takes up residence in your left hand jacket pocket, and doesn’t get spent.

**

He returns the next day, same time, same outfit, same order, same cash amount.

Who the hell is giving him money for this? Any decent person would know not to send their android on an errand in a place like this.

Same perfected air of calm in the face of general disdain. As human as he’s supposed to look, he stands out in the crowd, his carefully-designed idiosyncrasies making him somehow more irritating.

In the usual rush, you forget to watch the tip jar, and instead get distracted when he orders, because he tilts his head and gives you a small smile when you remember his name—

“Connor, right?”

“Correct.”

“What can I get you?” You’re not trying to be accommodating, and certainly not friendly. “Same as yesterday?”

“Yes, please.”

But he acts as if you are. Unfailingly polite, and you think—can’t be sure, but you think— he’s left all the change again as a tip.

And again, the day after. Looking at him still makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t even bother with the strained smile you give human customers you don’t like. Probably doesn’t matter. Androids don’t care about niceties. And you suspect he keeps tipping you anyway, though you haven’t caught him at it yet.

All through the week, Monday through Saturday, he keeps coming back. Always neatly dressed, even though Friday morning brings a thunderstorm.

Rain always has a way of thinning the typical morning crowd. During the lull, you lean against the back counter, trying to ignore

your gurgling stomach, and focus on the soothing grey of the downpour outside. It’s nearly empty in here, only a couple tables occupied. The quiet allows you to hear when the bell jingles.

It’s the android again. Right on time. And apparently not one to use an umbrella. Water streams off his hair, down his face, his grey jacket and jeans and boots. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you reject the instinct to offer him a towel, although he is tracking water in, and you’ll be the one who has to mop that up later.

You meet him at the counter.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?” You look away, already starting to ring up and prepare one large black coffee. At his odd silence, you glance back up, and find him staring at you.

“Yes, I think it is. Although, my programming isn’t meant to distinguish between good and bad. Only evaluate outcomes, and select subsequent responses. But– ” his expression softens with genuine curiosity, “—I really only meant to wish you a good morning. Is that not a thing humans say anymore?”

You really shouldn’t be noticing his hair right now. The fact that it’s shiny with water, dark and silky looking, and he has that one lock that falls to the left, which you’d really like to reach out and comb back in place for him—

“Are you alright?” He tilts his head, and you get the sense you’re being scanned.

“Fine,” you snip at him, and for some reason you’re blushing. He’s staring at you too intensely, that’s why. NOT for any other reason. “This is what you want, right? Your usual?” You’d never dare be this rude with a human customer. It feels wrong, somehow, with him too. Unfair, and are you REALLY worrying about hurting an android’s feelings? But you can’t help yourself.

“Please,” he inclines his head. “And I’m sorry for getting the floor wet.”

Wanting an excuse to stay even slightly irritated at him, you ignore the apology and fix his drink. Throughout the week, you’ve wondered who it’s for. What, and who, exactly, he is. Asking wouldn’t be out of line, you make small talk with customers all the time. The one thing humans have left to be better at than androids.

Too late. His order doesn’t take long enough to make, and you hand him the paper cup. Maybe you should suggest that he bring in his own reusable mug, like most of your customers do, save a few bucks. “Here you go.”  

“Thank you, miss…” his gaze drops below your eye level, to your chest. He stares longer than necessary, zoning out.

You cross your arms reflexively, like he’s any other creepy customer who feels entitled to check you out, though that’s not really the vibe you get from him. More like he’s scanning you, again. Still. RUDE.

“Hey!” You snap at him. “What are you doing?”

He blinks rapidly, brought out of his reverie. “I was looking for your name badge. My programming directs me to address all humans by name, if I know of one, and failing that, a title. I couldn’t find either one for you.”

You frown at him. “Aren’t I in the National Citizens Database?”

“Most likely, yes. But I’m not authorized to access it for any reason unrelated to my job.”

“Job?”

“I’m a prototype,” he tells you earnestly. “A detective assigned to assist the Detroit Police Department.”  

That’s a jarring thing to hear. You have a handful of regular customers from the DPD. Most are uniformed beat cops, though several are plainclothes detectives. Some are kinder than others, though the idea that any of them might be edged out of a salaried job by an android is upsetting.

How can a machine know the measure of pain, and despair, and humiliation– all the hurt that comes with not being good enough to earn a living?  

Even if he is an android, it’s very hard to snark at someone who’s so polite. You resort to staring at him right back. His eyes are brown and warm, his expression open. The corner of his mouth twitches up in an almost-smile and in that moment you swear to yourself– swear it-- that you won’t get some stupid crush on him, because he’s weird and unwelcome, and an android for crying out loud.

But you feel your heart beat faster. Curiosity shocks you, like a hand shooting out to grab your wrist and pull you off course. What does he want?

What does he dream of? Why, after the android uprising, is he still an errand boy for the people who probably shot at his friends?

How does he see the world?

What can he know?

“Is everything alright?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. His voice is as warm as the rest of his demeanor, calm and un-intrusive.

“Yeah. I’m– everything’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he actually means it. “I have to go.” He inclines his head.

He takes the coffee and leaves, and you notice, for the first time, how he moves. Precise and efficient. Nothing wasted.

You wonder if you might see him again, if only to have your questions answered.

**

On Sunday afternoon, the end of your week, you wait restlessly for the android.

My name is Connor. You hear his pleasant, even voice in your head, picture the peculiar ways he moves, and how he enters the cafe. Scans from left to right, cataloguing everything, and then fixates on—

You.

He doesn’t show up.

“Have you had any androids come in as customers recently?” You ask Jamie, your replacement, at shift changeover.

He looks at you expectantly, as if you’ve just given him the set up for a joke.

You match his expression. “I’m not kidding.”

“Uh… no. No I haven’t. Kinda figured they knew not to come in here. Could be a deviancy thing?”

“Could be,” you allow, though you’re hazy about how android deviancy actually works. No number of explainer articles in Century magazine had succeeded in making sense of it, and several months after the uprising, news pundits debate the issue ad nauseum on TV.

“I did have a dude on red ice try to swipe the tip jar.”

“No shit. Me too! Really short, skinny, with like, a gross, scraggly goatee?”

“That’s the one—“ Jamie interrupts himself to help a customer who approaches the counter.

“You haven’t seen Hank recently, have you?” You wait to ask until Jamie’s done with the order, and you have one foot out the door, with your apron folded over your arm.

“Who?’

“You know, the cop. Grey beard, usually cranky, smells like whiskey?”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t think so. Can’t say I remember him.”

You adjust your bag strap over your shoulder, and, by way of farewell, remind him to give away the stale pastries by the time he closes. Anyone who had met Hank would remember him, you think. For better or worse, he makes an impression.

Same with that android, or maybe that’s just you. The half hour bus ride home gives you plenty of (unwelcome) time to contemplate your growing fascination with your newest regular customer. You thumb the quarter in your pocket the whole way, shoulder to shoulder with androids and people since public transport had been desegregated.

It occurs to you that some of the people might actually be androids. They aren’t required to self-identify anymore, not by clothing or any other way.

The usual aversion you feel towards them is muted today. Connor is on your mind instead. He’s so straightforward, he tips the scale back to enigmatic. Every time he had come in, another question had piled on, and now all you can think about is the little quirk of a smile he’d bestowed on you, and how soft his lips might be on yours, and if he’d kiss you back.

**

“Hey Hank!”

He grunts.

“Having a good morning?”

He grunts again, lifts his chin and glares at you. You beam at him, already starting on his usual order: large caramel drizzle cappuccino with extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of chocolate shavings.

There is something deeply satisfying about meeting his eternal crankiness with persistent cheer, especially on a Sunday morning like this.

You’ve tried with other grumpy customers, but it just isn’t the same. He’s not looking very good today, but then he rarely does. A web of broken capillaries covers his sunken cheeks and blunt, rectangular nose. Eyes are bloodshot, grizzled hair coarse and unkempt. His clothes are rumpled. You can smell the whiskey lingering on him, he’s been drinking for so long it’s in his pores.

Hank has a way of timing his coffee runs such that he avoids the crowds, and you comment on this to him, as you often do. He shrugs, gives his typical response, which is that he can only deal with so much bullshit this early in the day.

You hum in agreement, and ponder bringing up the unusual android customer you’ve dealt with for the past week. Hank’s always up for a good round of complaining, though you vaguely recall him mentioning something about an android at work. He seems like he’s changed over the past few months, though you’re not sure how that all fits together. But he has been smoothed around the edges. He smiles a bit more easily.

“How’re things at the precinct?’ You ask instead. “Any cool cases? Anything juicy?”

You turn back to him in time to see him put the whole ten dollar bill in the tip jar for you, instead of paying at all. You’d only stopped thanking him for doing that when he’d threatened to arrest you for ‘being too nice, it’s suspicious’.

“Same shit different day. Assholes trying to get away with stuff they know they shouldn’t be doing.”

“Did I tell you someone tried to grab the tip jar and run?”

Hank does not look surprised. “Nope. Might wanna think about bolting that thing down.”

“Maybe.” You drizzle in three times the called-for amount of caramel, and extra pinches of chocolate shavings. Sometimes you suspect Hank keeps coming back to you not for the preferential treatment, but because you had laughed in his face the first AND second times he’d placed such a ridiculous order.

“Was it a junkie? Or just some desperate kid?”

“Red ice. Sooooo… both?” You hand him the drink. If you didn’t luck into this job, that desperate kid could very well be you.

Hank grumbles his thanks, but sounds defeated.

“You gonna make it today?” You ask him lightly, wondering how bad his hangover is.

“Eh” He takes a hearty slug of the coffee, leaving whipped cream on his mustache. “I’ll be fine.” He makes to leave, then remembers one last thing.

“Oh, by the way. Precinct’s standing up a new task force. Anti-android hate crimes are getting out of hand—“

You know what’s coming next, and start shaking your head before he’s finished. “Hank, I’m not—“

“Just listen! Hear me out. Six month internship, and at the end, the possibility of transitioning to a full time position.”

The idea of it is enticing, and just out of reach. Too painful to hope for. And so you decline, again, with the reasons you’ve given him before. Can’t afford to take an unpaid, full time position. Can’t afford to quit your jobs and then not be able to get them back in half a year when you aren’t selected to join the force.  

It’s your eight day working in a row, though you don’t mention this. You’d needed to request an extra shift, having come up almost a hundred dollars short on rent. Your life feels unmoored. Drifting, and precarious. You must simply make do, can’t hope for much more than that. Have to depend on the generosity of people who can’t really afford to be generous.

“Look.” He comes back to the counter to grab a few napkins and wipe his mustache. “Take some time, think it over. Could use someone like you.”

**

Weeks go by. Connor becomes a fixture of most of your mornings. Hank comes by less often, about every other Sunday. Every time you try to persuade him to bring his own mug—you know he has one, because he bought the café-branded one at your urging—he grouses and reminds you of the internship.

Someone like you. The words come to mind every time you look up from the register and see Connor step forward. Sometimes he’s doing tricks with a quarter. Snapping it from hand to hand, or spinning it edgewise and making it hop from one fingertip to the next. It’s his way of zoning out, you suppose, or entertaining himself (his screensaver, maybe?), but he always stops when he speaks to you.

Would the station even want you, when they had him? You can make coffee. He can do coin tricks and probably a hell of a lot more, and all better than you.

“Good morning. The usual, please.” He seems to enjoy saying that.

You’ve already started on it, and the next few drinks for some of your regulars you see behind him. “You got it.” And through the familiar routine of taking his cash, giving change, and the sleight of hand he performs to tip you without you catching him in the act. “Do you ever make coffee at work, Connor?”

The rare attempt at small talk doesn’t faze him. “No. A detective who resented my presence on the force demanded that I make him a cup of coffee. I refused, and he became upset.”

It occurs to you, with a sudden pang of shame, that you’d asked assuming Connor didn’t have a choice. You can’t imagine yourself doing anything other than hover in the breakroom and make coffee for whoever wanders in. That’s probably not what Hank has in mind.

You bustle around the little kitchen, with several drinks going at once, but not in any particular hurry to dismiss Connor. You still haven’t asked him why he comes to buy coffee most days, and he hasn’t volunteered the information. “What happened then?” You look over in time to see an odd expression cross his face, though you can’t quite place what it is, and it reminds you, again, that despite everything, he’s not human.

“He punched me in the abdomen.”

“What?”

“And then he left without getting any coffee.”

“Wait, go back to the part about him punching you, that���s crazy—“

He doesn’t get a chance to answer; a loud, shrill ‘excuse me!’ issues from somewhere further back in the line. You tip your head to peer around Connor, and see a young man—maybe younger than you— wave his arm in the air, as if you’re too dense to notice him otherwise.

“What’s the holdup!”

You don’t recognize him, he’s not a regular. He has a small dog on a leash, a cellphone pressed to his cheek.

“That expression of ‘excuse me’ didn’t sound polite,” Connor observes, more to you than anything else. He steps aside, and you keep the line moving, accepting payment and passing the appropriate drinks to regulars, who mostly disperse, out the door, a few to tables.

The man on the phone is next, carrying on half a conversation there, and half with you. There’s nothing that gets you riled faster than customers like this; you do your best smile (more of a grimace) and ask him for his order.

He pauses just long enough to sneer something about vanilla soy, and gives Connor, who’s hovering in front of the pastry display, a look of revulsion.

Connor tilts his head serenely, not oblivious, but unconcerned. Only observing. Something twists in you.

“Name?” You prompt, since the guy resumes yelling into his phone again.

Typical. You’ve noticed that it’s mostly the younger customers who are obnoxious, entitled assholes. Older people remember life before androids, and many, you’ve surmised, at one point had to work a service job just like the one you’re doing now. That’s a rarity these days. Those who didn’t suffer it end up like him.

“Name?” You ask again, and he apologizes to the person on the phone before sniping at you.

You hold your tongue, turn to start on the vanilla soy latte. Still haven’t given Connor his order, but he seems to have gone into standby mode or something, zoning out at the asshole on the phone, who’s starting complaining loudly about slow service, prices, laziness, and then you hear—

“fuckin androids, there’s one staring at me right now, it’s creeping me out.”

–and that twisting wrenches too far, and snaps.

You trash the drink without adding toppings, go back to the register, and ask him to leave. He’s causing a scene.

From there, the exchange goes pretty much as you’d expect. Indignation. Outrage. Insults at you and Connor and androids. Avowal to never frequent Has-Bean again.

Blood roars in your ears. Fine with you. Attitudes like his aren’t welcome here, you inform him, your patience hanging by a thread, reinforced only by Connor’s unflappable composure. He can apologize or leave.

Wrong thing to say. You weather the barrage of abuse until finally the guy storms out in a fit of apoplexy, yanking his dog’s leash.

The door slams shut, bell jingling. The whole place has cleared out. You look back at Connor, awkward and apologetic. There’s a slight furrow between his eyebrows, which you misinterpret.

“Sorry,” you begin. “Sorry you had to… see that.”

“I’m fine,” he says evenly. “I—I’m concerned about that man’s dog.”

“What? Oh.”

“It showed signs of distress, and abuse. There were contusions around its neck and snout.”

“it was a real dog?” You ask, before you catch how rude that sounds. As if it matters. As if androids aren’t real. As if Connor, and his feelings, aren’t real. Come on, get your head straight. You hand him his large black coffee to cover your embarrassment.  

“Yes,” he replies. Unusually distant, until he accepts the cup, his fingers brush yours, and the attraction to him you’ve repressed surges anew.

How strange, that he seems to smile with his eyes, or maybe you’re just imagining it. “Thank you.”

Suddenly you need to stop him. You need him to stay, and you come around the counter. It’s strange, and new, to stand with nothing between you; you ruin the moment by wiping your cheek. “I think that guy got spit on me when he was yelling.”

He says nothing, listening patiently, until he determines you’re done.

“I should go. I apologize for any disturbance I may have caused.”

“Connor, wait. I have to ask, why do you keep coming back here?”

“I like it here,” Connor says, after a moment of consideration. “It’s cozy.” He conveys this with a kind of earnest conviction, which initially puts you off. Androids aren’t supposed to have a concept of what’s comfortable and what’s not. A pleasant, quiet space isn’t supposed to evoke anything in them.

You clear your throat. He’s quite tall. He’d have to bend down to kiss you. “What’s, um… what parts are cozy? What do you like about it?”

He looks around. You note the LED on his temple, spinning from blue to yellow. Processing…

“The ceiling. It’s a molded pattern, 17.5 feet high. Constructed early 20th century. It was a house first, then this first floor was a ballet studio. The floors are original, you can see over by that wall, the unusual wear on the floor boards. There probably used to be a bar where the dancers practiced.”

You turn to look over your shoulder where he’s pointing, but don’t see it. He sets the coffee down on the counter, puts his hands on your shoulder and spins you around.

All at once, he’s very close. Maddeningly close, and he still has one hand on your shoulder, the other pointing out details of the architecture and design you’d never noticed before.  

The windows are oriented north-west, allowing an optimal amount of natural light throughout all times of day.

And the smell of coffee, but ignore that, and you can sense more, can’t you? The wood polish and warm, worn leather, and the musty doilies the owner won’t allow anyone to throw away.

The views across the street are nice: a flower shop, a pet store, an art gallery. Here inside is the perfect refuge to watch the minutiae of other people’s lives play out, though he phrases it as ‘gathering data’.

You hadn’t thought of it that way. Had never sat at the table he indicates, the one by the window, but now you can imagine sitting at it across from him, and you want nothing more than know what it feels like to hold his hand. To know him deeply, and for that quiet, familiar intimacy to become your language of ‘are you okay’, a keeper of secret things and shared smiles.

“Huh.” Is all you can say, after you turn to face him again.

He watches you, too perceptive, his LED still yellow.

The strength of your affection catches you short of breath—how shallow you must seem to him! How transparent, and uncertain, swinging from one extreme to another. At the mercy of emotions, so unpredictable they leave you twisting in the wind.

Your heart beats wildly, filling your chest with a fluttery excitement. You swallow thickly, “That’s, uh, nice, very informative. But I meant why do you keep getting coffee? You don’t drink coffee, do you? Is that a thing. Do androids drink coffee now? I’ve never heard of them drinking it, I thought they—you—I thought you didn’t need food…”

Connor waits for you to run out of breath and stop talking before politely replying. “No. I get coffee for my partner at the police precinct. I like doing favors for him. He’s my best friend. Plus he needs it. He drinks too much, so he’s usually hungover.”

You watch Connor with the sort of sinking feeling of an unrequited, inevitable crush. The lightness of infatuation in conflict with that weight, which addles your mind enough that what he just said doesn’t register immediately.

Hungover. No, it couldn’t be… And besides, the drink orders are polar opposites, and the idea of Hank having a best friend is absurd.

“I really should get going,” Connor reminds you, before adding, “you appear flushed. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you say, though you’re not. You turn away to retrieve his coffee, and behind your back hear the clink of coins in the tip jar. One of these days, you’ll catch him at it. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” He accepts it, and inhales its scent; curiosity flickers across his features.

“Connor?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could teach me those coin tricks sometime?”

“Alright. But I have to warn you, my biosystems and programming make it look easier than it actually is. For humans. Any android could do it.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone besides you do it before.”

He shrugs, a totally natural gesture, accompanied by a disarming smile. “They could if they wanted.”

**

“Huh,” Hank grunts at you. “Maybe you really aren’t cut out for police work. Took you long enough to put it together…”

Upon seeing Hank again, on a Sunday when he clearly did not want to be anywhere except drinking more, you had questioned him about work, and the internship, and most importantly, any androids working at the station.

You’d tried your best to hide your pique of interest in the connection, at the fact that an android considers this cranky asshole his best friend. You have to wonder if Hank feels the same, but as he endures your questions, you conclude that he does– that he loves Connor like a son.

“Well?” Hank asks. “Was that enough to convince you?”

You sigh, doing the math in your head. “Could you really swing it so I could live in the new recruit housing?”

“The barracks, yeah. Probably. Wouldn’t be the easiest living situation if you aren’t used to it.”

You take out the quarter that has inhabited various pockets of your clothing for the past few months. The prospect of possibly working with Connor in the most enticing aspect of this whole thing; as you fidget with the coin you again try to dismiss your pathetic infatuation and focus on practical matters.

Even with free housing for the six months, you’d have to find a way to afford food, and there’s no guarantee of a paying job at the end of it. Would be safer just to stay here. Making coffee. Forever.

“Where’d you get that?”

“This?” You hand it to him “Tip jar.”

He turns it over, grumbling, but you can tell it’s his ‘this is interesting’ grumble, and not his ‘I hate everything and everyone’ grumble. At last he gives it back. “Be glad you didn’t spend it. That thing’s worth a bit.”

“Really!?” excitement makes you knock over a cup of milk you were steaming. “Shit.”

As you clean up, Hank answers the question he knows you’re yearning to ask. “Fifteen thousand. Maybe more, depending on the date.”

A horrible thought intrudes suddenly; you imagine one, out of all the times you’d been turning the quarter over in your pocket, had you dropped it somehow, watched in roll away, fall in a storm drain. You pat the pocket where you’d just put it away, then zip the pocket closed.  

“I’m no collector,” he assures you. “Stupidest way to waste money I can think of.”

To be sure, you personally can’t imagine have fifteen grand to spend on ANOTHER piece of money. People are weird. Then again, you have a crush on an android.

“You should take it to an appraiser. See how much you can actually get for it.” He lifts his chin like a challenge. “…unless you feel like keeping it.” Which only an idiot would do, is the clear subtext there. You shake your head. Plans are already forming in your mind, nebulous visions of a future, which somehow includes a scene of you and Connor strolling in a park, hand in hand.

You sigh, and shake your head to dismiss that image. “You said the barracks aren’t easy? What’s it like?”

Hank almost smiles. He must know he’s got you, and he motions to a table. “You have a few minutes?”  

**

The countdown to your last day brings rising trepidation and doubt. What if you’re making the wrong decision? You’re giving up a steady income, as well as fixed rent that you know you’ll be able to afford for at least a couple more years.

The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to approach Connor with an apology. But he deserves one. It’s not just for your own peace of mind. How could you ever have hated him? Your memory of how you treated him is painful to admit to yourself, you’ll have to confront it soon.

Yet you put it off. Wait one day, because you see him and he smiles at you and you don’t want to mess it up.

And another day, one bright quiet morning, when he holds up a quarter between his index and middle finger and asks, “ready?” In the empty shop (lack of customers not a good sign, perhaps it’s for the best that you’ll be moving on soon) he stands behind you, hands on your forearms, speaking low and steady in your ear.  

Relax, you’re tense, it’s all in the wrist. He sounds so human, you could be forgiven for mistaking him for anything other than a machine, but then he observes your precise heart rate, and the spike in dopamine, and he finally reminds you that humans need to breathe.   

Of course. How silly of you. Forgetting to breathe. Inhale, exhale, and all that. While he’s hovering there at your back, appropriately spaced and you’d rather he NOT be. You’d rather he press himself against you, make you feel the ridge of his erection, if androids even have urges like that. Probably not, but that doesn’t stop you from getting distracted, nor does it weaken the potency of your arousal, because fuck he’s right behind you and it’s too easy to fantasize about dragging him into the back room and showing him how you’d like him to kiss your neck as he fucks you.

One day, a second day, a third, and fourth day in a row, he comes in, orders, then sits down and reads.

He carries a book with him. What was the outdated term you’d heard Hank use?

Oh yeah— hipster.

An android reading. Such a simple act of enjoyment; it shouldn’t be a shocking sight, but regular customers keep shooting him unpleasant looks. Finally, after the rush has died down, you work up the nerve to slide into the seat across from him.

“Good morning.” He looks up from A History of Jazz in the American Midwest: the 1940’s.

Last day, you realize with a start. Last chance, before you’re sort-of colleagues with him. You’d practiced variations of a most eloquent speech in your head, every bus ride to and from work.

“Connor, I owe you an apology,” it would begin. “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I was unwelcoming and bigoted and it was wrong of me to act like that. I’m sorry.”

He’s staring at you expectantly, and in the aftermath of this conversation, nothing about the way you parse the details can account for what your mouth decides to do in defiance of logic.

“I’m an idiot with a crush on you.” You blurt it out and then freeze.

He tilts his head, bewildered. Clearly doesn’t know how to process this kind of thing, and the LED on his right temple spins from blue to yellow. When he speaks, he’s halting. “My algorithms can’t give me a precedent on how to respond to that—I’m…” He pauses again, searching vast databanks and not finding the right words. Any other time it would be reassuring. One of the most advanced prototypes ever made, rendered uncertain by human weirdness.  

You wait in wrenching silence, brace yourself for a rejection that doesn’t come. He shuts his book without marking the page.  

Then, he reaches up to brush a strand of your hair out of your eyes, and gives you a kind smile. His fingers trail from your hair to your cheek, caressing the skin. Your breath hitches.

Up close, he’s somehow more handsome, and how is it that everything he does makes you giddy? He regards you serenely, head cocked slightly to the left, observing your reactions. As always.

“It’s okay,” he answers your unspoken apology. “Do you want to start over?” And at your grateful nod: “My name is Connor.”

You respond in kind, though your own name sounds distant in your ears, because he’s saying something about how his protocols indicate this is the optimal moment to initiate mouth to mouth contact and he’s leaning over the table, closer, closer.  

In the empty, quiet shop, he kisses you. This one, lambent morning when there’s a break in the clouds and sun in your eyes, he kisses you, not quite hesitant. More like he’s experimenting. Thoroughly.

You stiffen, though he’d moved slow enough to it, but his lips are soft, pliant. You kiss him back fervently, bring your hand up to grip his forearm, don’t go. Don’t end this too quickly.

When you part, it’s not far, you pull away needing to breath and knowing he never will.

“You know Hank hates plain black coffee, right?” It slips out before you can stop yourself. Something about this damn android.

“Yes.” His brow furrows. “He needs to eat healthier. He’s at risk of heart disease.”

You find yourself worrying your lower lip. “The fact that we made out probably isn’t going to help his stress level.”

“No. Luckily I know of several disused rooms at the precinct which are perfect for–”

“Discussing the history of jazz?” You finish, glancing down at his book.

He almost smiles. You catch it in his eyes. “Find me on your first day and I’ll show you around.”