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francisbacon-3 · 2 years

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Control found himself in a quaint albeit busy coffee shop on the corner of the street. With rain still dripping off his hair, he couldn’t wait for a bracing cup of hot coffee - it wasn’t too early, nor too late in the day, and hopefully it would refresh him enough for the rest of it.

He glanced at the clock on the wall; in a couple of minutes it would be eleven. He made a mental note that, should this coffee shop prove good enough, he would forward the address to Valerie. He shook his head then. This was a regular visit of a regular establishment, and yet he treated it like yet another objective on his to-do list – he wasn’t doing surveillance, he was on his lunch break. But men like Control often took their work with them wherever they went.

The queue moved forward, and soon he was at the counter ordering his usual: a regular cup of coffee with a splash of milk, not too much, and no sugar. Sometimes the workers winced at this. After all, “a little bit of milk, not too much” is not an exact description of what he expects, is it? It would be a lot more help if he said “exactly twenty-three millilitres”, “one and a third of a tablespoon”, even a “a little less than a tenth of a cup” would be more meaningful for the unfortunate barista. This cashier, however, barely shrugged, returned him his change, and rung up another customer.

From one queue, Control was simply moved into another, where people were expectantly awaiting their drinks. Control got to admire some of the tiny pastries and cut-up cakes on the showcase while he waited. Thankfully there weren’t many customers, and soon he was to be served.

“Hello,” a lively voice greeted him. “A regular coffee, no sugar, and ‘a little bit of milk, not too much’ ... This is for you.” A hand offered him a saucer with the cup of offending bewerage.

Control resurfaced from his reverie, and looked, still-dissociated, at the barista, then got utterly lost in his shiny blue eyes. Above them, he had thin brown hair with a fringe roundly plastered on his forehead, a bright, soft face with hollow cheeks and an innocent, almost puppy-like look to him. He smiled at Control, friendly. The barista wore a light blue shirt, a beige apron, but the strangest thing about him was a plaid brown tie, which seemed entirely impractical in his work environment.

The man had such a sweet aura to him that Control absolutely forgot about the entirety of the coffee shop - for a brief moment it was just him, this barista, and a rather small cup of coffee on the counter between them. The barista’s gaze was calming, gentle, but in that instant it was as if he had gazed Control right into the bottom of his soul, saw all through his life, and understood, in a very special and to Control unknown way. The barista’s rosy lips moved slowly, and words of indescribable beauty flowered from them...

“...sir? Is everything alright, sir?” The barista waved at him. Control shook his head, both feet firmly on the ground. “Yes. Yes, of course.” The barista looked at him with slight alarm in his eyes, then gestured towards the person next in line. “If I may... Ask you... To move on, sir? There appear to be people in line.” “Yes, of course. I apologise,” Control nodded, grabbing his coffee and leaving in a haste.

Subconsciously he navigated among the tables, until he finally settled in a place where he could both observe the situation around him as well as the barista, who was already busy with another set of customers. He seemed to have forgotten this little incident already, whereas Control was cursing himself for standing there like that. He shook his head, and focused all his attention back to the sweet man.

He had an endearing smile for every customer. It was clear that he was happy with his work and happy where he was. He kept his apron very clean and was swift with the orders, moving smoothly between the counter and the coffee machine. Control’s stomach grumbled at the memory of the small cakes that looked ever so appetizing in that display, when he remembered that he still had an untouched coffee in front of him. Cursing his folly once again, he reached out, grabbed the cup, and sipped on now lukewarm coffee.

Yet, despite its temperature - and this Control realised as the most pleasant surprise - it was the best coffee he had ever tasted. It was his perfect cup of coffee, much better than any that he had prepared himself. The barista barely knew him for fifteen seconds, and yet he had an uncanny ability to prepare a coffee unlike anything Control had ever tasted before. It wasn’t often that someone bested his perfect cup. In fact, it was never - no matter how good a coffee shop, they never quite matched his expectations. This man, whom Control had never met before, didn’t even know his name, whipped up based solely on some poor instructions on a piece of paper, the ultimate coffee.

Control looked around himself to see whether this was still just a figment of his imagination that made everything appear way better than it was - but no. In fact, every single customer that happened to sit down and taste their drink was overjoyed at the quality, nodding approvingly and sharing their delight with their friends. He took another sip, and didn’t it just taste incredible?

What an extraordinary talent, Control thought. Such a talent could be put to use at the Secret Service. Maybe there’s more to him... Maybe... Control realised he was once again getting ahead of himself. After all, this happened to be just an exceptionally good barista, and, thinking of Secret Services, might actually be using this as an alibi while working undercover!

At that moment, Control lifted his eyes from his cup to check on the man, only to find that the pick-up counter was empty, barren of both the customers and the barista himself. Just as Control turned around to check the perimeter, the barista appeared at his side, walking past with a collection of dirty cups.

“Is the coffee to your liking, sir?” Control tried to be detached and casual about himself, but the sight of the sweet barista entirely melted his heart, an unfamiliar emotion that had him smiling back at the man. “yes, it tastes very nice. It is exactly how I like my coffee. Full marks if you don’t mind my saying.” “That is good,” the barista nodded, and was already on his way back to the coffee-making area. “boh,” Control hummed.

He did manage to get the barista’s name, at last, judging by his nametag. Tony. It will be much easier now to track him down in their registry of enemy agents.

...

But Control didn’t look into the registry, and neither he thought about anything else but the coffee and Tony as they were on that fine morning. With his position as the head of the Secret Service, he was supposed to be objective about everything, because everything could pose as a threat to the national security, and, by extension, to himself. Yet he found Tony profoundly harmless, if not entirely incapable of purposely causing any mischief. Worst thing he could do was probably serving a coffee too hot.

No, Control found himself unable to critically assess Tony. There was something peculiar about that man, that made Control’s head very light and very heavy at the same time. He never had trouble spying on people, but the truth was that he hadn’t been in the field in a while, and his observation skills were likely getting rusty. This was, of course, how he justified his now everyday visits to that little coffee shop in the corner of the street – one does not gain all of the intelligence needed in one sitting. Consistency and continued surveillance are the secret of every successful espionage.

At first he had thought this way, yes. He felt that he needed an explanation, an excuse for seeing the barista every Monday through Friday on his lunch break. If not for Valerie, who always asked whether she could do him a favour by popping to the coffee shop herself (”No, Valerie, that’s okay,” he told her. “I need the exercise, anyways. Remember my pedometer?”), then maybe for himself, because, while he was often able to explain many things, this behaviour of his was a great mystery. There is nothing more perplexing than not being able to rationalise one’s thoughts, since one should be well aware of what and why they think something.

It was delightful to stop there every workday at exactly eleven o’clock and have delicious coffee served as if it were for him and him only. Control revelled in that establishment, felt it a great pleasure to be there, even for a little less than an hour, and he was tremendously sad each time he had to return back to his boring office. Not only his boring work (actually, it wasn’t that boring, and rather quite important. But it was considerably boring and very much paling in comparison to the coffee shop) awaited him there, but it lacked a very important element to Control: Tony.

Tony, Tony, Tony. No matter how bad a day was, all it took was the sight of Tony’s face as he smiled at Control entering the shop and he was as good as new. Control loved how Tony’s name sounded. Control loved how brisk he always was, full of energy and brightening the atmosphere of the place. Control loved the sound of his voice, the way how tidy he was (just like himself!), how his coffee was always spot-on. Therefore, it came as hardly any surprise to him, the day that Control realised that, more than anything in the world, more than coffee and his job, he loved Tony.

That morning Control was especially unhappy with the way things were going at the Secret Service. A couple of days ago, they had discovered a mole in their unshakable institution, and last night, it was Control’s ‘pleasure’ to interrogate him. As one can imagine, there’s nothing even remotely pleasant about interrogating an enemy agent. The long night of fruitless back-and-forth yielded little to no results, and it left Control sore and exhausted as he welcomed a new day. For the first time ever, he actually considered finally sending Valerie to the coffee shop – but no. He had to see Tony in person, certain that his customary visit would at least partially fix his troubles.

“You certainly do come round here often,” the cashier, who Control came to learn was named Philip, nodded in acknowledgement as he jotted down Control’s order. “Might as well get your name while we’re at it. No offense but it would certainly save us a lot of trouble, since you always order the same thing.”

Control’s cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment. Then he remembered that Philip likely treated his visits like any other regular’s, and didn’t see the special significance that Tony gives them.

“That would be ‘Control’. Would you like me to spell it for you?”

Philip quirked a brow in amusement. “Seriously, and no fibbing now. What’s your name?”

“I don’t suppose it changed while we were talking. My name’s Control.”

“Are you serious?” Philip chortled. “you even got it on your ID?”

Control nodded, slightly irked by Philip’s antics. People were known to give him trouble with his name, though often the jokes subsided quickly and gave way to actual conversation.

“Tony, get a load of this guy!” Philip cried after the barista, who was already preparing Control’s coffee. “His actual name is ‘Control’!”

Tony didn’t even look at Philip, still busying himself with the coffee machine. “It’s not the weirdest name I’ve heard, but definitely the first time I’ve heard this particular one.”

“…and the last,” Philip shook his head, amused, as he handed Control his change back.

By then, Tony was already done with the coffee. “Don’t listen to him. In fact, I think your name’s special, Control. I like it. It is unique… Not to mention that you do, actually, look like someone I’d call Control.”

These were very simple words to Tony, but to Control they held a value greater than the biggest secrets of the Secret Service. He instantly felt the familiar admiration he had for Tony, and any anger over Philip’s treatment of his name immediately dissipated. Control let out a long exhale, and smiled at Tony, grabbing the cup of coffee from the counter.

“And I like your nails, too,” Tony admitted.

Control was especially proud of his job with the black nail polish, and Tony complimenting them changed Control’s mood for the entire day for the better. He was headed to his usual table with confidence. As he sat down, he noticed that Tony had been watching him the entire time; the man ducked as their eyes met, and went back to his work. Control grinned to himself, and sipped on his favourite coffee from his favourite barista. Oh, the coffee was delicious. And Tony saying all those lovely things to him was even better. Really, it was no wonder that Control felt so superb every time Tony was around…

It was there and then that Control recognized the reason behind these mysterious feelings that wracked him each time he visited the coffee shop.

It was there and then that Control realised he was truly and genuinely in love with Tony.

…

Such fragile feelings were to be cherished, but also to be protected. It would do neither of the two of them good, were Control to spring this news onto Tony the very next day.

Because Control was a scheming and calculated man, he continued visiting the coffee shop and watching Tony as if nothing had changed. He arrived every day at eleven o’clock sharp, and this habitude of his was apparently so common a phenomenon now, he already had his coffee prepared for him. That made him feel quite an esteemed customer, and he did his best not to attach more meaning than necessary to it.

Tony didn’t make it any easier for him, though. As much as Control tried not to flatter himself with things that could be easily just a matter of circumstances, the observation skills of the head of the Secret Service aren’t something to be taken lightly. It was undeniable that Control sometimes noticed a certain glint in Tony’s eyes when they greeted each other, how the man’s hands shook sometimes as he handed Control his coffee, how his cheeks, even though it was neither cold nor hot outside, would turn slightly pink.

Control started paying attention to Tony from a different, more spying approach. He came to confirm what he had suspected – Tony liked tidiness, coffee, and precision. He liked seeing the regulars, but he was just as welcoming to the new customers. He enjoyed preparing elaborate drinks, and was always a tad let down when he had to prepare a ‘boring’ mug of black, sugarless coffee. He didn’t pay much mind to sports but he liked to listen to the news on the radio, and when the counter was spotless and there were no customers to be served or dirty dishes to be collected, he’d look out of the shop’s front window and simply watch people in the street passing by and minding their business. If he went into training, he’d be an exemplary spy, the pride of the Secret Service. So far, though, he was the pride of the head of the Secret Service.

And Control liked it that way. He liked seeing Tony every day, he liked his coffee, and he disliked the weekends for keeping him away from the coffee shop and Tony and the coffee.

Overall, now that Control was sanguine about his feelings, he also appeared less rigid and austere to others. Or such was the sentiment that Valerie extended to him one day as she greeted him upon his arrival to the office.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Why, you look positively gushing today, sir. Did you and mrs. Control have a nice weekend this weekend?”

Ah, yes, Mrs. Control. A carefully fabricated lie created in order to maintain an image of a regular, proper, successful man. Control didn’t like the idea that his subordinates would think him a frivolous bachelor that enjoyed a solitary way of life. Though, yes, he enjoyed being on his own, Mrs. Control was a relatively harmless lie, given that not having a wife was not such a grave offense anyways. Now that he knew he had refined tastes, Mrs. Control no longer suited his needs, and continually having to lie about her left behind a not very pleasant taste in the mouth.

“That is very much true, Valerie, thank you for asking. Mrs. Control and I went to the cinema to watch a nice movie about two people unpredictably falling in love and on Sunday we had a very tranquil walk in the Regent’s Park.”

“I am so very happy so hear that, sir.”

“And you, Valerie?”

“Oh, I just went to see my parents, nothing special.”

“That’s ever so kind of you, Valerie, to keep in such close contact with them, even if you no longer live together. I do hope that they are doing well, are they not?”

“They are doing very well, sir, thank you, sir.”

With that, Control retreated to his office, and was already buzzing with restlessness at the thought of seeing Tony that day. He wanted to put the thought of Mrs. Control far behind himself – actually, he wanted to put Mrs. Control far behind altogether. No more Mrs. Control, he shook his head as he reached for the topmost folder on his table.

Were there to be another Mr. Control (excluding himself and his brother), though…

Control slammed the folder onto the table in frustration. He longed for Tony to return his feelings badly, and it was starting to consume every single moment of his life. He had more important things to do, given that he was the head of the Secret Service and currently on the clock. He reopened the buff-coloured folder, and began reading. His thoughts, unfortunately, wandered right back to Tony.

How would he even break the news to him? They weren’t really friends, either. But nothing suggested that Tony had any serious acquaintance, and Control (just to satisfy an inner curiosity... or maybe not. Maybe he really intended to do it) even did some digging on him, to see whether he had anything of an unsavoury past. Tony was, unsurprisingly, a spotless, model citizen, a regular thirty-year-old man born on the fourteenth of may, with almost entirety of his family being born in Britain. If there was anything odd about him, it was that the file about him was created almost seven years too late for both an entry in the registry and the progress with the digitalisation of the database they’d done. There was another file linked to him, but it appeared to be corrupted and inaccessible. Perhaps an older version, Control thought. That would explain everything.

Needless to say that before eleven o’clock, Control barely got through a third of the folders. He bid goodbye to Valerie and headed out for his customary coffee lunchbreak.

The coffee shop was bustling that day, and when Control arrived, the queue ended outside the shop. He was surprised to see such commotion, as it was normally unheard of, but was happy to see that his favourite establishment was finally getting the attention it deserved. His joy on their account, however, turned sour just as he got to enter. Philip wasn’t at work that day, and therefore the burden of pulling the shop through a wave of coffee-thirsty customers fell on Tony and Tony himself. Control wanted to cry, and most of all he wanted to get Tony out of there, his and everyone else’s coffee be damned. It was unfair that he had to look after the entire shop, being the sole employee there. Seeing him have to juggle taking down orders, making coffee and cleaning it up afterwards was insufferable to Control, who had to juggle the entire Secret Service – on the other hand, there, most people were civilised enough to take care of their own matters, instead of dropping them onto someone else’s head.

“Goodness, Control!” Tony smiled despite the pain of running around the store without a break for the past three hours. “I was rather hoping you wouldn’t come today, since the place is in such an uproar.” He paused, an awkward realisation on his face. “Not that… I wouldn’t like to see you at all, Control, no.” He absent-mindedly fiddled with the cash register, his cheeks burning red.

“What happened, Tony? Where’s Philip?”

Tony was already making several cups of coffee at once. “Oh, that’s a funny thing, Control. Actually, it’s not funny at all, when I think about it.”

“Pray tell, Tony? I do hope nothing too unpleasant happened to your co-worker.”

“It was a morning like any other, Control. But,” he paused to pour the coffee into cups, passing out some to customers, setting some aside. “at, ah, nine thirty or so, was it? Yes, nine thirty and two minutes, it was. Philip ran out of the printing paper for the cash register. And it’s a very old cash register, too, as you can see for yourself. It’s got this complicated—I apologise,” he had spilled some coffee from a customer’s cup, “it’s got this complicated mechanism of getting the paper back inside. And being frustrated already from something, he kind of, well.” Tony finished making Control’s coffee, and pushed it towards him. “Slammed his fingers in along with the paper. He packed his things up and left for the emergency room. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Tony.”

He waved his hand. “It’s not the first time it happened. But it’s weird that he won’t even call.”

“Can’t someone else come and cover his shift?”

Tony shook his head. “There’s Costain, but he’s very peculiar. I have an inkling that he works for a whole different coffee shop at the same time. I don’t think he’d pick up, let alone come in.”

An impatient customer rang the bell by the cash register.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I really do apologise,” Tony told Control. “I’ll be right with you!” he cried towards the customer. “If I may ask you for something?” he stopped Control mid-step.

“Yes?”

“If you would be so kind as to return the cup back here to the counter once you’re done, Control. I’m afraid I don’t really have the time to collect them.”

Control nodded. “Of course. I’ll make sure I return it in perfect condition.”

Tony smiled at him, and returned back to the cash register.

It didn’t get any less busy for the next hour, and during that time, even though the coffee was flawless per usual, Control couldn’t find it in himself to properly enjoy it as long as he saw how tired Tony was. It didn’t feel right to drink and relax while there were people barking a hundred and fifty words a minute at him. He considered taking his coffee to-go, but that would require Tony to interrupt everything he was doing and get him a paper cup, and he didn’t have the heart to abandon him, either.

Instead, he waited until the storm blew over and the coffee shop got a tiny bit less crowded. Tony finally got the opportunity to get away from the counter. When he returned, he looked even more tired than he had been before. It was as if someone dropped something even worse on him.

“Ah, hello, Control. Anything I can do for you? Was the coffee any good?”

“It was perfect, Tony, and no, thank you.” He paused. There was weariness in Tony’s eyes that wouldn’t be fixed even by ten shots of espresso in rapid succession. He was exhausted, shaken up, and looked as if he might fall over any moment. “Is everything alright, Tony?”

Tony frowned. “Philip called. He said that he probably cracked a finger, and they still haven’t taken him in. So he won’t be returning today.”

“I’m tremendously sorry to hear that, Tony.”

He shrugged. “It’s Thursday. I’ve always disliked Thursdays.” He took Control’s cup, and went to wash it.

Control got a brilliant idea.

“Tony?” he asked.

“Yes, Control?”

“Would you happen to have a phone in here?”

“Yeah, it’s in the back. Help yourself.”

Control punched in the numbers to his office.

“This is the Secret Service, Valerie speaking,” a voice answered him.

“Hello, Valerie.”

“Oh, sir! I was wondering when you’d come back. Did something happen?”

“No, nothing to worry about.” He paused and reconsidered his words. “Valerie?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do I have any meetings today?”

“No, sir.”

“Cancel them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will not be coming back in today. You may go home, too.”

“That is ever so kind of you, sir, thank you.”

“Goodbye, Valerie.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

He hung up. Tony was standing just a few metres short of him, a puzzled look in his face.

“I hope you wouldn’t mind me helping you out for a bit here,” Control looked at Tony innocently.

Tony shrugged. “As much as I’d like to, I don’t think I can.”

“Oh, Tony,” Control shook his head, amused. “I think you’ll find that your decision in this, unfortunately, would be immaterial.”

Tony absolutely gave up reasoning with the man, rubbing his forehead and on the brink of giving up altogether. “Hm. I presume, with another peak coming in around four to five, I could use another pair of hands.”

Control beamed at him, and Tony let out a sigh of relief (or was it defeat?). As they headed back to the counter, he couldn’t help but prod.

“What is it that you do for a living, Control? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Control was making himself familiar with the workings of the cash register. “Oh, I’m the head of the Secret Service.”

Whether it was from the exhaustion or the need to process what Control just said to him, the barista simply plopped down on a barstool, entirely incapable of uttering another word.

…

“You’re making us a great publicity, you know that?” Tony hummed as the last customer left through the door. “I mean, nothing against Philip, who is the embodiment of a perfect cashier, but you? With that getup of yours,” he vaguely gestured towards Control. In his pristine dark blue vest, pressed trousers, painted nails and the eyeshadow job of a posh vampire, he certainly did stand out. “Maybe you should, I don’t know, come here at least on the weekends. Competition would have nothing on us.”

Control huffed a laugh.

It was getting late. They tidied up the remaining cups, put chairs in order, and prepared everything for the next morning.

Tony shrugged off the apron – one would think that after such a long, tiresome day, it would go through a considerable strain on its condition. But no, per usual, it was cleaner than the Queen’s Sunday-best white damask tablecloth. He donned his suit jacket that looked a size too big on him, and a small bag, and turned to Control, who had already collected his belongings and was ready to go.

For a moment too long, Tony just watched him. He then reached out slowly and put his arms around Control, going in for a small hug. Control didn’t hesitate a second to return the sentiment. Tony’s hair smelled after shampoo and faint coffee dust, and he was very warm to the touch.

“Thank you for staying,” Tony murmured against Control’s chest. “I don’t know what I’d do. In all likeness I would probably be still at the counter, with no end in sight.”

Control smiled. “I’m glad I could be of help. Just another day of being in the service of the country.”

Tony chuckled.

They left through the back door. It was dark outside, and it looked like a soft rain was either starting or ending. Tony locked up behind them, sending Control ahead.

There were fresh poodles of water on the pavement. Control picked up a leisured pace, headed for the main street, when there was the sound of rubber squeaking, followed by a thud and someone grunting. He turned around, only to see that Tony was sprawled on the ground, one hand still holding onto the wet railing that failed to hold him up as he walked down the slippery stairs.

“Goodness, Tony! Are you alright?” Control jogged towards him.

Tony grappled on the hand that Control offered him, then swayed a little, landing against Control’s chest once again. He laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, hm… yeah.” He shook his head. “I’m just—“ he yawned. “I guess I am just awfully tired, Control.”

Control nodded in acknowledgement. As Tony reached with his other hand (he was still holding onto Control with one) to rub at his eyes, he accidentally smeared something on his face. Control quickly grabbed his other hand.

“Tony! You’ve cut yourself!” he cried.

The man was half-awake at this point. “Oh? Hm.”

Control fished out some napkins from his pocket and dabbed with one at the wound. Thankfully it wasn’t serious.

“Maybe it’s not such a bad Thursday after all,” Tony mused. He had his face turned upwards, eyes closed, droplets of water raining down on his skin. He looked relaxed. “it’s not every day that one meets the head of the Secret Service, makes coffee with him, then has him tend to a trivial gash. Am I under investigation, sir?”

Control shook his head. “Why would you think that, Tony?”

“It suddenly makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it, sir?” he suddenly opens his eyes and stares right back at Control. “After all, why’d you keep coming to a little coffee shop for several weeks in a row, never missing a day? Must be a top-secret investigation, that.”

Control was silent.

“I know you can’t tell me anything, sir. Will this appear on my record, though?”

“I can assure you that there will be nothing on your record, as you haven’t incriminated yourself, or anyone, Tony. I simply came to the shop every day because I liked your coffee.” His heart skipped a beat. “I came because I liked you.”

He became aware of how close they stood. The rain started pouring harder. Tony looked down at his bleeding hand that was ever so delicately still being held in Control’s palms.

“Liked… me, sir?”

Control brushed a few strands of wet hair away from Tony’s forehead, then cupped his cheek. The man’s eyes were suddenly more alive than they had been the whole day. His lips parted slightly, and he looked at Control in timid anticipation.

“Tony?”

“Yes, sir?” he whispered.

“Please, call me Control.”

Tony’s lips tasted like white coffee with no sugar. He was soft and warm and all and any trepidation that Control had about breaching the subject of his love to Tony vanished like nothing. As they embraced in the pouring rain, a wave of serenity descended onto him. For the first time in what could be months, he was free of doubt, because Tony loved him too.

As they strolled down the street, hand in hand, Control decided not to come to work the next day. Maybe even the whole weekend. He looked forward to spending as much time as possible with Tony.

And as Tony huddled in closer to him on the couch, dressed in dry pyjamas and with a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, the prospect of a Mr. Control seemed all much more likely.

#abofal #the english quartet #fanningism #remastered my fucking coffeeshop au because it's the best thing i have ever written

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