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"Hey, Morrie."
Behind the counter, the woman in black - the one with the heavy makeup, elaborate hair beads and... are those feathers tucked into her scrunchie? - gives her employer a look that could sour milk. A goth, maybe? Certainly acts like one. "Surely I've told you enough times not to call me that?"
Said employer is blond, ponytailed, and wearing a loose yellow vest that gapes down to show a hint of well-developed pectorals; a simple cord at the throat, an earring tucked away under a few unruly strands of hair - young, surfer dude-ish. It's a good look. He simply grins, wide and white-toothed, and continues as if she's said nothing, "Cappuccino for the gentleman over there. Sharpish, if you will." Sounds a little Northern, but it's evidently softened from spending time down here. He makes a vague gesture to his left, giving a swift wink to the gentleman in question, who's hovering at the counter, watching all this with great interest.
"You have legs," she answers sourly, but her tone suggests that, if she has her way, that may not be true for very much longer.
"So do you," cuts in another employee, striding out of the back room, head ducked, still tying the laces at the back of his apron. "You know, if you used them a lot more and your mouth a lot less, the world would be a much happier place." He looks up, raising an eyebrow.
And wow, the gentleman at the counter notes, if he thought the previous look was terrifying, this one is likely to make small children and fully-grown adults cry. The service here may be terrible, but it sure isinteresting. "And the world would certainly be no poorer if you ceased your prattling," she replies.
Her... well, he doesn't seem to be a friend, raises a hand to his chest. "Oh! You cut me! The sadness, the inanity of my continuing existence - I can't stand it!" He drops the act, glares at her. "Scuttle back to your manor and your mother, why don't you? And would you maybe go and die while you're at it? Yeah, thanks."
"Just because she's a toff - " their boss scoffs from behind them.
The other man turns to him, a finger raised and... yes, wagging. "Not a toff. The toff. Flemeth is feared in about seven countries! Morrigan here is aristocracy." He crosses his arms, smirking.
"And quite what she would think of me standing here, serving... tourists," the woman - Morrigan, wasn't it? - mutters darkly, saying the word tourists as if they're equivalent to the darkspawn that have been on the news.
The gentleman waiting for his coffee checks his watch. He has to be at the station in ten minutes, and has no idea whether he'll actually get there. He knew Oxford Street was famous for its crowds, he knew Londoners did their best to steer clear of it... but he's new to this city, and he wanted to see for himself. He's now definitely regretting it.
He looks to his right, where those who queue next to him are being served by a smiling woman a fair few inches below average height - she has a chipper grin, her hair in two tight, practical bunches, and some of the strangest, most intricate tattoos he's ever seen on her face. They look like military ink; he's seen a couple of the Legion's veterans on TV, all unsmiling mouths and hollow eyes, and a few of them have had designs like those. But none of them have looked like her. She catches his eye, gives him a nod, and looks to the other employees. "Boys, there's a guy here still waiting for you. Get off your asses andserve him." American, maybe.
The fair-haired man who was insulting Morrigan moments before visibly jumps, darting a startled glance at their observer, who is now starting to look slightly impatient - checking his watch, tapping his foot and glowering at them with increasing regu larity. "Oh. Yes. Right." Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, he trudges to the counter, and to the newest customer.
The glowering customer turns his head at the sound of swift, businesslike footsteps behind him, which then turn to the left, navigating their way round the two hellish queues.
A tall, wiry guy with hair so dark it seems black, a little longer than average, steps to a wall near the counter, and presses a blu-tacked poster onto it, placing it neatly and carefully. His head turns to regard his colleagues. "Settle it down, guys." His voice is calm, quiet, and his boss is standing feet away, but there's a definite feeling in the air of deferring to authority - Morrigan stalks into the back room without another word, and the surfer-dude boss's grin fades.
"Sure, Nate," he says with a hint of a nod. "Leli again this Thursday, right?"
"Nate" nods, then heads off through the shop again - their customer, eyes straying to the poster, taking in the photograph of a startlingly beautiful, flame-haired woman wearing a beret and smiling enigmatically, doesn't see where he goes.
However, his eyes do stray from it as he becomes aware of a low muttering somewhere behind him. He turns to see a squat, red-haired man with an impressive beard further down in the queue muttering, cracking his knuckles as he does so. The odd piece of a sentence can be heard - things like, "Should've known..." or "Taken her that long, anyway" - and the customer has to resist the urge to back away.
He turns as the fair-haired man, Morrigan's verbal sparring partner, speaks, having finally come over to serve him. "Don't mind Oghren. He's not that bad, really, just... a little paranoid." He looks at the red-haired man, mouth downturned. "Too much caffeine. And yes, he's always like this - I honestly don't know how he does it." He shakes his head incredulously before seeming to brighten, giving the now more unnerved than disgruntled gentleman a grin. "Anyway, what can I get you?"
"I said a cappuccino," their weary customer reiterates, checking his watch once again - 8:41. Four minutes. Cutting it fine if he wants to make the train. Impossibly fine, actually - he'll never make it. "To take with me."
"Coming right up," is the man's bright reply.
Their customer is then forced to grit his teeth against the whooshing, gurgling, objectionable noise of the coffee machine, until the flimsy cup is handed over. He gives his money slightly reluctantly, hand tight around the fiver after the standard of service he's received.
He is about to turn to leave when the ponytailed surfer suddenly springs into action; he stands, walking to the counter, pushing the server aside with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. He squints at the commuter holding the rapidly cooling cappuccino. "Sorry, mate, but... have we met?"
Garrett frowns at him. "No. No, I don't think we have."
The blond shakes his head as if trying to clear it. "Sorry," he says again. "I must've confused you with someone else."
Garrett shrugs. "Must've."
The surfer waves a hand dismissively, turning back to resume his post with a muttered, "Sorry, Al."
Garrett turns and walks from the coffee shop, making a solemn promise to himself never to go near Oxford Street again, and checks his watch.
8:47.
He's missed the bloody tube.