Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s late and it’s Wednesday and Nebula wants to go home. She still has an hour left of her shift. There are only a few customers left; students writing frantically on laptops, people just reading or scrolling through their phones, a group of teenagers out late and, of course, a few assholes which just like to stay around to piss her off.

Would it be vain to say they come around here just to vex her, Nebula, personally? Probably. But it certainly feels like it, in any case, and that’s what matters.

The coffee shop Nebula works at serves subpar coffee,  and she’s sure people only come for the rustic, farmyard, hipster aesthetic and to leer at the girl with prosthetic limbs. Though, she allows, their muffin selection is fairly decent.

It’s not terrible, really, it just isn’t great. Most people are friendly enough — sometimes overly friendly to appear woke, or some shit like that — but that’s fine, and mostly makes up for those who aren’t so nice. But Nebula’s lost an arm, not her hearing, so she doesn’t miss it when people look at her pointedly and go “that’s the girl I was telling you about.” And even though it’s not unkind, usually, it’s not exactly comfortable.

The door chimes as it opens, letting a gust of icy air into the stilted warmth of the shop. Nebula puts down the trays she’s holding before settling back at the counter and turning to face the new customer. And — oh thank fuck.

“Good evening!” says Mantis, somehow cheerfully bright as always. “My class finished early so I came to visit you.”

Nebula lets a small smile slip onto her face and busies herself with the cash register, trying not to look up or blush too obviously. “Thanks,” she replies shortly, because she doesn’t want to look like an idiot. She clears her throat. “What can I get for you?”

Mantis pauses, looking up at the menu boards and then down to the muffin display. It’s cute how much effort she puts into deciding, not that Nebula would ever admit it, as though one coffee might be slightly more sub-par than the rest. The girl always ends up getting the same thing anyway.

“I think I’ll have the hot chocolate again, if that’s okay, and… what would you recommend?” she asks, eyes looking at her earnestly.

Truthfully, Nebula already has the cherry chocolate muffin, and the hot chocolate powder out, but she takes another few seconds to hum as though she’s thinking deeply about this, and to just stand across the counter with Mantis here.

“I don’t know,” says Nebula, as she does every week, as though she does not know Mantis’ sweet tooth by now. “How about this?”

Mantis seats herself by the table closest, sipping her drink and eating her muffin, smiling and waving at her every now and then just because, and Nebula smiles and waves back, because her heart is a damn traitor and also a moron.

“Hey, careful there,” says a voice from behind her. “Need an extra, uh, hand carrying all those trays?” Nebula stifles the urge to groan and pummel his skull in with her metal fist — see how much of an invalid he thinks she is then — because she does get paid to put up with this shit. She allows herself a quiet sigh, however.

“No thank you,” she replies evenly.

The kitchen is five steps away from where she is now, so Nebula forces herself to keep walking straight.

“Hey I was talking to you,” says the man again, and she can practically hear the smugness lilting the bastard’s voice. “Are all the servers here this rude?”

Nebula’s always had problems with her temper, even Father knew that. She feels her fists clench and her pulse beginning to pound loudly in her ears and the momentum already building up in her muscles and —

“Wow,” says Mantis suddenly, her voice still somehow sunny, but there’s something else. “You are an asshole.”

Apparently, this is startling for the man also, because he rears back and just says “excuse me?”

“I said you are an asshole,” Mantis repeats. “You were being the rude one, not Nebula.”

Nebula holds her breath, ready to jump in at any moment (and totally not paying attention to the fact Mantis remembers her name — she’s wearing a nametag for christ’s sake.)

The man stands up, suddenly, red-faced and looking defencive. “Look lady, I was just offering my help. It’s not my fault she decided to be such a damn bitch about it— “

“Do not call her a bitch. You were not offering to help, you were trying to make a cruel joke about the fact that Nebula has a prosthetic arm because you are close-minded and also an asshole.”

The rest of the shop is looking at them, wide-eyed. Because mostly, people just try to turn a blind eye. And it’s a family business, so Nebula’s boss certainly doesn’t care. Nebula herself isn’t quite sure what to do in this situation, though, to be honest, the calm in Mantis’ voice right now is kind of badass. She can see how the other girl might be intimidating, even sitting down, sipping luke-warm hot chocolate.

“You should leave,” says Mantis, as softly as ever, and levels a final, bright glare at the man.

The man leaves.

“Thank you,” says Nebula, and this time she doesn’t try to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I think you just stopped me from doing something that would’ve gotten me in a lot of trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it,” replies Mantis, nibbling once more on her muffin. “He was truly an asshole, and I’ve really had enough of those.”

“Me too,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “You’re sweet.”

And Mantis grins at her, flushing happily. “So are you.”