Monthly Bonus Content #2: 'Service With A Smile' (Waiter & Beckett Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a black to red color gradient with a black smiley face in the center that seems to be staring into your soul. It's black and white, matching the text that reads: 'Service with a Smile', but the 'smile' part is in a more graphic, all-caps font.]

Clack… Clack… Clack…

The wind chimes eerily welcome another customer into the Fernweh Diner's dinner rush, each distinctive strike an altering warning to the servers darting around. It's an implicit call to attention. Mal's voice doesn't join the chorus of half-hearted welcomes; it rarely ever does, but the wavering of those chimes compels him to look up. Their tempo was faintly disjointed, reluctant in a way that suggests slight unease before speeding up to muffle the clacking.

It was yours.

Your beat.

You open the door a particular way, often sparing a quick glance at the cobbled together antique spoons as if they're something more sinister. In an instant, Mal forgets the amount of change he was making, coins slipping past his fingers when he goes to greet you—to properly welcome you—to rightfully appear by your side. It changes in a fraction of a second.

His fingers find the counter's edge, an anchor and albatross, to play off how he nearly pivoted from the register mid-count. A flicker of real emotion no longer shades his smile, turning the polished into something else that would turn even more heads. Mal's lips remain curved upwards, unshakably pleasant and inviting to all, yet his perfect teeth set. You aren't alone.

No, much like a baby duckling or a lost puppy, Beckett toddles after you with a closeness that Mal can't completely discount as childishness, though it is painfully insecure. Would he cling to you like a drowning man too? Craving that support at the expense of dooming you both to an unpleasant end. Beckett's overt scan of the dining area is met with Mal staring back at him, waiting to see if he has some self-awareness—some inkling of lurking danger. He needs to.

He'll drag you down—too naive, too innocent, too unaware, and too perfectly sweet.

Their eyes meet.

Beckett's widen before flicking away almost instantaneously to look elsewhere in the diner, while Mal's head subtly tilts at his reaction.

"[Honorific] [Surname] and Shortstack, grab a seat wherever, and I'll send a server your way."

Clyde's welcoming baritone rises above the clinking utensils, dinner conversation, and sizzling cooking grease. He waves his trusty spatula at you in particular to say 'hello'. It breaks the moment as you return his greeting before facing Beckett to say something more.

Mal watches it all.

"…It's $0.74 cents."

Slowly, too slowly, Mal turns his head back to face the elderly man who wants exact change of a specific composition. No nickels allowed and he wants at least two shiny dimes. It has turned into a math problem. The old man taps his cane on the counter's edge to further speed things along while Mal wordlessly finishes the transaction. "Have a wonderful evening, sir."

"Yeah, yeah whatever."

Mal's smile remains, burnt umber eyes boring into nothing because he's only thinking of you while collecting menus to be your waiter. He's confident none of the other servers would dare to claim your table. They should notice how you've become his regular, a lovely constant.

"When you have a chance, we need some more ice," Clyde tells him as he purposefully moves past. "Someone special is here too. They're in the—"

"Thanks."

Mal already knows, able to sort out coins and observe you from the corner of his eye, head barely turning to keep you in sight. Of course, he knows. The open-air kitchen allows him to shadow how you and Beckett navigate the length of the dining area, sticking to the outer edges of it while Mal uses the service prep and bustle as a smokescreen. He's soundless yet certain, able to navigate the space seemingly unseen. No one tries to signal him for a check or ask another favor of him, not with the intent look in his eye. He idles by the broken jukebox.

You're still getting settled.

The rest of the diner falls away; it's just your secluded booth draped in partial shadow with your back to him. Mal leans against the wall, patiently waiting his turn. He's always waiting. When you bounce some in the seat, he almost smirks to himself until your arm slips and ends up around Beckett's shoulders. He keeps it there, shifting closer to be in a hold.

It must've been an accident.

He spotted your flicker of surprise, elbow slipping off the lacquered wooden edge of the booth. It wasn't a classic move or a ploy for closeness. Mal accidentally jams his pen, faint mechanical crunch muffled by his hand when his thumb leaves its click top. He swaps it for another without any pause, clicking it.

"We're finally all settled? How sweet…"

Instinctively, you turn to locate his alluringly smooth voice, while Beckett startles at his sudden arrival, which is how it should be. Mal wants you alone to seek him out. The rest? He couldn't care less if they cower or welcome him. He deftly pushes off the wall, accentuating each slow step that closes the distance between you both with a click of his pen, a countdown for mutual anticipation. His smile is still ever pleasant. The one reserved for you is for your eyes only; it's slowly being uncovered, veneer weakening with time spent together.

You're only watching him now.

Do you even feel how your arm is around another? Body heats mingling along with the fragrances you both wear, though yours isn't as cloying as Beckett's tropical one. He can barely detect the sweet undertone to it from where he stands at the table's edge out of your reach, yet his apron brushes the wood. Mal acts before you can say something, setting down the three collected menus with a swish of plastic.

Two adults, one children's with crayons that are perfectly aligned with Beckett's seat.

"I know your order by heart…" He pauses, tone becoming less smooth and smile shaded with a sliver of a different emotion when addressing you. "…Your special friend will need to place his. I'll be back."

With that, he leaves, feeling your eyes on his back as he departs for the staff only area.

The chilled mist that billows out of the walk-in deep freezer hardly registers to Mal, its biting coolness an afterthought. The 'plunge' is what most of the other servers call it because going in here and then being on your feet all day to wait on tables can create a disorienting hot and cold effect. It wakes people up too. He's heard Clyde say the chef who taught him made him stand in here if he was lagging on the line.

Mal picks up a frosted-encrusted ice bucket to begin loosening the ice cubes that are frozen in bulk in this ancient freezer. There are bags of them that end up forming clusters the staff have to sort out into manageable amounts. He grabs the ice pick, chipping off and gouging out ice cubes before he uses the metal scoop. It's tedious, but it's a task he can do all alone, smile gone.

It's his favorite.

. . .

. .

.

Where are you?

Mal forcefully sets aside the ice bucket, eyes roving the Fernweh Diner with an intensity that goes beyond unsettling as he connects the dots. It's an altercation…? No, an assault. He heard thick glass smacking against something while moving to get a better view of what's frozen the customers of the Fernweh Diner.

You're on the ground, soda-stained and stunned, whereas Beckett is brandishing a broken ketchup bottle like it's a jagged knife.

You're saying something to your friend.

Talking him down? Comforting him? Rebuking him?

It's all ringing white noise to Mal once he spied your prone form on the ground, assessing you for any injuries. The ketchup splattered everywhere didn't help with that! He has to very carefully unclench his fingers, blood nesting beneath the deep crescents he dug into his palm. It was a reflex to stay his hand. He's still moving forward, drawing closer to your side while very aware of both Beckett and Klay.

The danger hasn't passed.

Beckett's world has narrowed down to you. It's something Mal can begrudgingly recognize, if only you could realize there's more to it as well rather than reassuring him. Klay takes the opening, pulling out a camo switchblade to inflict harm; he's far too close for Mal's liking.

On instinct, Mal acts, leather boot coming up with a punishing force, but he still wants the man capable of walking out of here… for now.

"Christ on a"—Klay's voice jumps an octave higher, strained into a whine—"cracker."

Finally, you turn away from Beckett to watch how Klay painfully slumps to the ground, sinking to his knees with a hand covering his groin area, but Mal is choosing to watch you instead. His eyes have been unerringly drawn to you from the first moment you stepped foot in the diner, although he takes a second to meet Klay's glare, simply smiling down at him. There's nothing indulgent to his expression, only a pretty veneer for dark intentions. He's practically begging for a reason to act on them.

"Creepy ass motherfu—"

Mal cuts Klay's cursing short by gripping his mullet when he attempts to round on him, arms raised. He uses the tail end of his hair like a leash, directing the irate man before bringing his free hand up to rest under his jaw to form an exacting vise. Mal feels his next hard swallow—how his throat nervously bobs around it, Adam's apple brushing the edge of his hand. Klay's head is now held securely as if a single twist could end things. If this asshole says something rude to you, Mal's fingers could serve as a cruel bridle, wedged and pressed into the hinges of his jaw. He has shut up.

That's fortunate.

"Words hurt, you know," Mal too calmly remarks. "But so can so many other things…" His concentration rests on you despite how he's holding a belligerent man at bay. That falsely pleasant smile falls away, replaced with an absence of emotion as he wordlessly studies you. He is waiting for your signal.

If you're okay, then it's okay—no, it's tolerable.

If you're not, then—

Mal's fingers better align with Klay's taut jaw, testing the give to the hinge while he waits for your final verdict with all the time in the world.

"I'm fine, don't"—you hesitate for a fraction of a second—"don't lose your job over this idiot."

"That's what you're worried about being lost?"

Mal gives you, and only you, a more genuine grin that's still just as dangerous, yet none of that undercurrent of danger is aimed at you.

"Mal, he's a customer," Clyde chimes in. "We're still in service. You can't—"

Mal releases Klay's jaw, using his hair to pull it in the opposite direction when freeing it so there is an audible clack of teeth. "I'm on trash duty tonight," he interjects. "I can wait with him in the alley until the police arrive to not disturb our polite regulars. Bethany can come along too as a witness. We'll explain the situation to them."

"I think that'd be for the best…" Clyde agrees.

"What?!" Klay demands. "The cops are for me? Not the little psycho? He wanted to dice my ass up first."

Mal detects how Beckett shuffles closer to you for comfort, while you're too preoccupied with staring down Klay.

"It was a form of self-defense, if you really think about it," Mal notes, though his observation has more truth than he'd care to admit. He shares one last look with you before pulling Klay to his feet with the use of his hair, which quiets any extra commentary. He leads the trio through the restaurant, aware that the lingering tension will remain in spite of their departure. You likely won't remain in the restaurant for your meal.

He has mixed feelings on that.

The side alley is blanketed in shadows, too far from the diner's neon signs so only a few old floodlights help to illuminate sections of it. Mal pauses, foot catching the door before Bethany can join him on the concrete stoop. "I left the ice bucket sitting out. Could you please take care of it for me?" he asks. He isn't truly asking.

Bethany hesitates, smoothing out the lines in her dress while checking the length of the alley. "I thought I was supposed to, uhm, help watch him?" Her smile wavers when she gets a better look at Mal. "You're sure about this…?"

"I am," he smoothly replies. "I'm also sure you need to stop overcharging Ms. Marjorie, or I won't be talking to you as a co-worker, Bethie."

Only Bethany's sister refers to her like that.

Mal knows; of course, he knows.

That gets her to scamper off, nearly tripping over the raised lip of the threshold after she offers a muttered apology, head bowed. The door swinging shut takes the remaining bright light with it. He focuses on Klay, smiling more after using the man's hair to angle his head around so their eyes properly meet. "…Then there were two."

"The cops are comin'! You can't do anything to me—it'll be a red flag to them," he points out. "I mean, like one, single scratch, and I'll have your head!"

"I'm not going to hurt you," Mal sweetly reassures him, smoothing the hair from his face. A combination of stray soda and the start of sweat is streaking Klay's temples, adding a stickiness to his dirty blond hair. His touch is gentle, unnerving after such a swiftly brutal kick and paired with a firm hold on the man's mullet. The whiplash alone would make most people very frightened, but Mal's coiled bearing furthers that. "I'll see you later on tonight though."

"That a threat?"

Mal smiles pleasantly, inviting customer service disposition failing to mask how he's really seeing nothing while looking at Klay.

"A vow," he says. "I take them deadly seriously."