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“Blarne” Sam Stein x Reader

           You work in the café essentially beneath Homeland Security. Those agents work long hours, so it just made sense to have caffeine nearby. Of course, working in the café got to be boring sometimes, as it remained open until 10pm, but for the most part the Homeland Security personnel went home by 6.

            A just-in-case measure.

           Mornings, on the other hand? Packed.

           “Tall mocha,” you call out. A short woman steps from the crowd and grabs it, eyes never leaving The Bulletin in her hand. You haven’t had a chance to read the headlines yet, but once the morning rush dies you know there’ll be plenty of time until the afternoon rush kicks in.

           You get to work on the next drink. Your co-workers frantically rush, calling out drinks and flying around like bees hopped up on cocaine. They were hired about three weeks ago—they’d get used to the rush in a couple more weeks. Until then, you keep your own pace. Most of the customers are asleep on their feet; they don’t know the difference between getting their coffee thirty seconds earlier or later.

           The morning flies by.

           One after another, the customers disappear, some walking back out the door, some going to the security doors and flashing their I.D.s over a scanner to get in. Security guards wait just beyond the doors.

           And finally, the rush ends. As you make the last Americano for a handsome man, the phone rings.

           One of the new employees, Tara, grabs it. You tune out the conversation as you hand the man his drink.

           “Thank you,” he says. He has thick stubble face bordering a very short beard, short curls atop his head, and he wears a tan suit with a diagonally striped tie.

           “You’re welcome,” you say, offering him a smile.

           He returns the expression, eyes sparking. “Have a good day, Blarne,” he says before walking for those gated doors.

           “Uh, you too,” you call after him, thoroughly confused. Blarne? What the hell? You look down at your nametag and snort. That’s right. You and Tara decided to put on fake names today, just to prove a stupid point that they don’t matter.

           Still smiling, you turn around and come to face-to-face with Tara’s grimace. “Oh, no,” you say. “What’s wrong?”

           “Dana called in sick.”

           “No!” you groan. “I’m going to call our mid and see if they can switch to a bit later. We can handle the afternoon rush alone.”

           “Already called him,” Tara replies. “He said he has his senior seminar from 6 to 9 on Wednesdays, so he can’t.”

           You rub your eyes. “Shit. Well… How late can you stay?”

           “I have a doctor’s appointment at 2.”

           “And the other guy?”

           You and Tara both glance to your other co-worker, who has promptly run for the bathroom to spend his daily thirty minutes in, playing on his phone. “I didn’t even ask,” Tara admits.

           “Yeah. No need. Uh… how about I go home and come back around three? Will you be okay until then?”

           “Of course, especially when our mid gets here. Going to go home and sleep?”

           “Yep. I’m in tomorrow morning again, and it looks like I’ll be closing tonight.”

           So you head back to your apartment, take a three-hour nap, and return to work, all thoughts of that cute man calling you “Blarne” gone from your head. You counted the days in your head until you were off to complete your Master’s. You had taken a gap year (or three) between school, and now you regretted it. It was time to something more than work.

           You get in and help the others work through the tail-end of the afternoon rush, and then you let all the tired workers go. At about 6, when most Homeland personnel are leaving, the cute man comes by again.

           You’re elbow deep in scrubbing out the sinks and trashcans when he asks, “Blarne?”

You jump. “What? Oh, how can I help you?”

“Jumpy?”

“Sorry,” you nervously laugh. “Just wasn’t expecting anyone.” Wasn’t expecting anyone to call you Blarne, to be more precise.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. Just came for two large regular coffees.”

“Let me get this gunk off my hands and arms, first. You must be working late tonight,” you comment, eyeing him as you wash.

“Yeah. Things are ending up a bit more complicated than we thought. What about you? You’ve been here a while, Blarne.”

You stifle a laugh, drying your hands and coming to stand in front of him. “I’m sorry, but my name’s not Blarne,” you confess.

His eyes drop to your nametag. “But…”

“It’s just something stupid my friends and I did,” you say.

You watch his cheeks turn red beneath his beard and he laughs, scratching his head. “That’s embarrassing,” he comments. “And here I thought I was impressing a cute barista by taking time to learn their name.”

“Happens to the best of us,” you reply.

“Really? How many times has it happened to you?”

“Five. Definitely five.”

“You pulled that number out of your ass,” he accuses, smiling. God, that smile.

“Did not.”

“Then what were their names?”

“Well, there was Mufasa, Nala, Abu, Iago… and you got me. I can’t remember the fifth. Only four times, then.”

“You mean you couldn’t think of a fifth Disney character, which is the actual embarrassment, here.”

You playfully scowl. “You’re getting decaf coffee for that.”

“Do that and you put the nation at risk,” he warns.

“Oh yeah, I’ve never heard that one before,” you mutter, turning away to grab his two coffees.

“So what’s your actual name?” he presses.

“(Y/N),” you answer. “And yours?”

“Sam,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N). How much are the coffees?”

You say the price and he pulls the exact amount out of your wallet. “What?” you joke. “After all that, no tip for the cute barista?”

“How about dinner instead of a tip?” he asks, meeting your gaze, face hopeful.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, entirely unprepared for that. “S-sounds like a really good tip.”

He chuckles. When you give him his receipt, he pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles his number down in the tip line. “Text me, then we can make plans,” he says, slipping the receipt back to you.

You grin like an idiot. “Okay.”

His expression mirrors yours. “Okay.” He takes the two coffees and heads back through the doors, casting glances over his shoulder, a bounce in his step.

Once he’s gone, you take out your phone and text, It’s Blarne.

Your phone dings. Free tomorrow night, Blarne?

All night.

Dinner at six?

Where?

Meet me outside the Met. We’ll walk from there.

Closing glides by. You leave, feeling lighter, and you don’t mind coming into work so early tomorrow.

Finished the Punisher, loved it all, and I’m still mad at Billy. Also, “Blarne” was taken from Bojack Horseman.