'Afterimages of You' (The Waiter and Reese Version)

[Alternate Text: A very red-hued image of a hand reaching out to a wall and creating a shadowy double of itself that is seemingly reaching back. It's in shades of red and black, likely from a red light source that's helping to cast the shadow. There's something both scary and sad about the shadow. The title is: 'Afterimages of You' in a white font with a dim, black shadow behind it.]

This Mal POV is set during TFS: Book One, Chapter 7 when the MC can learn the second letter of their name, the A, by finding it intimately placed on their to-go cup.

For this writing, the MC is also romancing R. Verner. 🖤

So, that's why they're called 'picture windows'.

The uninterrupted spans of glass frame the outside world into beautiful landscapes that aren't broken up by wood paneling or choppy blocks. The Fernweh Diner has a hefty AC bill due to all of the natural light pouring in through its windows, but it was a design choice. This lets the retro eatery seamlessly blend into the town while providing views of Fernweh. 'Crystalline' is the best way to describe the diner's windows thanks to its servers' rigorous buffing routine.

It's all picture perfect.

To Mal, you're a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

The red frame falls away along with the lady boisterously laughing at a book in the booth in front of your window. It's yours now. He doesn't care for the foreground, middle-ground, or background, only its subject that's strikingly gorgeous even with that distant expression on your face which could suggest tiredness. If this 'visit' has been taxing, imagine how your future stay will unfold. He does rather frequently.

When you distractedly move from your window to claim another, he flawlessly pivots to watch you seemingly transcend each work of art. You aren't alone this time. They are all here. It—

"Mal, they're gonna get cold."

Clyde's voice tears him away from observing you when his trusty spatula taps the edge of one of the plates Mal is balancing. His smile turns more polished at the interruption to curb how he nearly drew blood from his tongue. "No one likes cold buttermilk pancakes," he agrees.

"Exactly!" Clyde enthusiastically replies, although he doesn't immediately return to the griddle. He casts a furtive glance between the entrance that's being filled by a large party and his lonesome server. His grin widens. "That's your table though, alright? I saw that look, tiger. Go get 'em—after you deliver my special, 'kay?"

Mal indulges the line cook's camaraderie before leaving to deposit orders along the bar while still paying close attention to who's coming in.

It's primarily you who merits any focus, but he mentally strikes off a list as each person files inside. Some names are neatly crossed out, others are scored through thrice. He pours a customer extra syrup during the wait. It's James who gains a modicum of his respect for not allowing you to enter inside of the dining establishment last, a slight no one else knows.

He would have you enter first or at his side.

Always.

"That's, uhm, enough…"

Mal just thoroughly drowned this poor woman's pancakes in a shallow puddle of syrup. His thumb is still on the tiny lever that controls the opening turned floodgate. He leans closer, resting his elbow on the counter in time with his lips curving into something more charming. His gaze strays from you for the first time. "You like it sweet, don't you?"

There's something sinful in his honeyed tone, but oh-so-sweet that makes the woman balk.

"I sure do."

"Lucky me," Mal murmurs. "I'll be happy to comp it for you, regardless…"

He moves on before she gathers her wits or musters up the nerve to speak any further.

Finally, your little gang has arrived within the diner, although it looks closer to a processional when you all loiter in the aisle to work out seating arrangements. Again, he can't help but think of where you'd sit in relation to him. You would be on his right side out of both respect and so he could keep his hand occupied with yours. Mal sighs.

"Bethany, could you help me with a drink order, please?"

The younger, less experienced server nearly stumbles when about to pass by him because his back is still to her, yet he perfectly timed his request. Mal can feel her wide-eyed look before he turns around to transform that into a rapid nod. "How kind," he notes. "You'll be preparing: a chilled glass of chocolate milk, a medium black coffee, a small coffee with cream, sugar, and a shot of espresso… I'll handle the rest, but I will be approving the final order. Understood?"

"Uh, where's the table's ticket?"

Mal doesn't pause in gathering a still-warm mug for your hot chocolate; it lacks any chips or stains. It's a pure, snowy white; however, it won't do for the final drinking vessel. He'll need a paper to-go cup that can be easily marked up by him. "Why?" he asks. "Why do you want it?"

"Because it's a lot to remember," Bethany reasons. "I could check them off as I go."

His smile doesn't falter while he finishes mixing your blend, never daring to use the dry powder, but a blend of molten chocolate and the high quality syrup that Trent raved about. It's also from sustainable cocoa. "In our line of work, it's best to have a long memory. Practice with this one, and I'll help you, if needed," he assures her.

With Bethany all settled with the easier drinks, Mal continues to perfect yours, even needing to disappear to one of the underused drawers to secure your chocolate. He keeps it there for when you'll stop by. It's a semi-sweet bar that helps to balance the creamy sweetness of the drink. He makes the mistake of glancing up to check on you while grating the artisan bar.

You're settling into place by the Verner heir, trading a look with him that's quietly amused, but you no doubt made a choice to be by him.

By his side. Together. Nearby. In his grasp.

Reese says something before turning to peer out the window, purposefully angling in a way that highlights his features. He is inviting you to admire him—the angles, the sunlight on his fair skin, the way the lighting illuminates his blue eyes to make them ethereal, the subtle way he's smiling for you above anyone else. If Mal can see all of that, then what about you?

An inkling of warning spurs him to stop before his skin makes accidental contact with the grater, shearing it. The chocolate shavings he was creating in a tiny bowl to sprinkle is now a small mountain. He'll have to replace the bar that's now a warm strip of chocolate that has subtle indents from his grip. Mal doesn't mind.

You deserve the very best.

He collects the bowl, delicately sprinkling the shavings atop the whipped cream of your hot chocolate. All of that artful consideration is then hidden away by the plastic lid Mal snaps into place. Next, he collects a pen, raising the cup into view with a scrutiny that most people would know not to disturb. The placement is crucial, except imagining where your lips will come to rest on this undeserving, cheap paper product tempts him to keep going—to get lost in what could be. They're so kissable, and the drag of them against his bare skin is what he yearns for. The sweet decadence of the hot chocolate has nothing on future traded kisses.

Mal is taken by the idea of you, the potential.

He writes an 'A' near where the lid meets the cup, just below where your lips will rest to enjoy a sip of the drink he made for you. It's discreet yet intimate. He'd never let the black ink graze your soft lips; however, the prospect of an indirect kiss entices him, nearly causing his jagged penmanship to stutter. It's a start.

While your roles in Fernweh do differ, this is a reminder of your private, two-person game.

He studies the next letter of his name to ensure the ink won't stain you before concluding it's finished. Dragging a thumb over it was unnecessary. Paper lacks the same give and plumpness of flesh, feeling cold and sleek, but this is something to show his care for you.

By now, Bethany is done, which means all Mal has to do is inspect the order. He collects a cute, crazy straw from the container reserved for kids, plopping it into the chocolate milk. It's either a 'crazy' or a 'bendy' one, either term works. "You did well, Bethany. Thank you."

"Happy to help, so can I go now…?"

She doesn't dare to move from his side until Mal releases her with a satisfied nod, drawing it out on purpose. He collects the drink laden tray with ease. Mal soundlessly navigates the diner with a knowledge that can only come from working many shifts within it. He knows where to step, when to pause, and how to be to ensure his final arrival by your side is seamless.

It will seem like he was always there.

Once the last person finally sits their ass down, he breaks the silence to savor how you react.

"There are only so many possible combinations between the five of you…"

You straighten up in your seat to find where he is, searching and seeking his presence out, but Mal has a role to play and lines to easily deliver.

"I'm glad that everyone is finally settled," he continues speaking. His polite tone is carefully cultivated to not be too familiar or too demure, just pleasing to the ear with its respectful deference that no one here has truly earned. A subdued approach is best when dealing with a crowd of customers, even if you stand out to him. "I would hate for these"—he raises the full tray higher in the air—"to go to waste, so please allow me to hand them out."

Your table seems receptive to the hot drinks.

"A medium, black coffee for our ever dutiful Detective."

"Thank you," James replies, taking the cup.

"Mmm, no. Thank you for all you do for this town," Mal sweetly replies. It's saccharine on his tongue, borderline cloying enough to choke on, but he knows James gives a damn. More importantly, he's aware of Alina's deep care for her soft-spoken and soft-hearted brother; that's something. He plucks another drink from the tray like it's a flower from a bouquet, presenting it with the same level of care. "A small coffee with cream, sugar, and a shot of espresso to combat late nights."

Silas nods his gratitude, allowing the drink to be set in front of him rather than taking it by hand.

That minor detail doesn't escape Mal's notice, the calm snub. Then again, he did just admit to being aware of Silas's late night tendencies in spite of their relative social distance. It was a smart move that also happened to be rude.

"Some pretentious artisanal tea blend that won't be found anywhere else in town…"

Reese lightly scoffs at his evaluation, pointedly raising his monogrammed thermos to his lips to take a languid sip that Mal watches. It's a touch disappointing he doesn't gag on the contents. Taste isn't what's important about that rare, obscure blend. He continues ahead.

"Chocolate milk with a cute bendy straw for the visitor."

"Uhm, thanks," Becca replies.

Mal detects her uncertainty in the barely there pause and how she eyes the straw that isn't present in the other drinks. Hers is also the only cold one, though those subtleties tend to escape most people. Still, he regrets nothing.

"And last, but certainly not least, [Name]…"

He takes the utmost care in setting down your drink in front of you, the only one made by his hands that took some of his time and effort.

It's perfectly made hot chocolate.

You must know this too, already reaching for—accepting—your drink while looking at him.

"Your drink should be better than last time," Mal guarantees with a bold confidence that goes beyond taking pride in his work. "I made it myself." His polite smile is less distantly cordial and more charming when he directs a faint, lopsided grin at you. When you're about to take a testing sip, Mal raises a hand, extending a single finger that signals you need to pause for a second.

It builds anticipation.

You're only looking at him for elaboration, which is something the Verner heir seems to notice too based on that shuffle of movement.

"I'm not sure if the top is secured tightly enough. I would hate for you to get burned…"

The warning about your drink potentially being too hot hangs in the air while the two of you have your moment in front of a crowded table. Mal would admire you in front of a grand audience; there is never a wrong time, but dark satisfaction curls through him. Sure, you sat next to Reese, but you've forgotten that for a—

"Suing you"—Reese uses his metal thermos to indicate Mal like it's a judge's gavel—"or this restaurant for the harm sustained by [Surname] would be an utter waste of time." He leans farther away from the window, reaching over you to secure the top of the cup with a little too much force based on the pathetic squeak that comes from its cheap material. "I would still sue you on principle, even if I would only get a penny…"

He couldn't just sit there quietly for a moment?

Mal is able to easily pick apart Reese's intense bearing from the protective action he just took to how his arm rests behind you on the edge of the booth. You likely don't even perceive the pointed move—the one that puts you within the Verner's reach and embrace without any shred of contact. It's wholly respectful to you, while a clear warning to him. It's calculating of Reese.

"Maybe your mother would represent me pro bono?" Mal jokes, undeterred by his snark. He brought up their strained, familial dynamic on purpose, testing Reese's resolve by introducing discomfort. It's a reminder of whom he is protecting and where he comes from. Lois will always harbor hard feelings for you—for your family—and Mal can't fault her. "Or maybe we could work something out?"

"She is not one for lost causes or cases, so no."

Reese sees straight through his pleasantness based on how his arm curls closer, held back and braced on the booth's edge while his pale blue eyes are cool. Verners are adept at that, and yet this one has done more than 'warmed up' to you. It's something to watch. Mal simply smiles pleasantly in response to Reese's quip.

The non-reaction is likely more grating to him.

"I doubt the Fernweh Diner keeps drinks that hot," you intervene, taking your cup to taste the hot chocolate. "This hypothetical lawsuit can stop now."

When you speak, both he and Reese listen, except Mal's smile becomes shaded by amusement when he watches Reese's arm silently slip away while you're preoccupied with your drink. (It's his drink for you.) The fabric is soundless against the booth's edge, leaving you entirely unaware, which Mal prefers. He observes the small sip you take, although it's the barely concealed realization that crosses your features at the end that he truly revels in.

You saw his letter.

"It does taste better," you admit, setting your cup back down and pulling it closer to where you sit. "Thanks."

Are you hiding it from the others or tucking it closer to yourself to cherish? It's something to ponder later after he continues to offer service.

"It's my pleasure," Mal acknowledges your gratitude. His smile widens before he pulls a slim notepad and pen from a pocket on his apron. "Will you all be dining with us, or is it just the drinks? The waffle irons are hot and ready to go."

Becca perks up a little at the mention of the breakfast item, but she just as quickly deflates when James shakes his head in the negative.

"We need to look over the menu to decide if we have time for a meal," James explains.

Because that's definitely the reason for this delay instead of talking about something grisly.

"No rush." A deft flick of Mal's wrist causes the notepad cover to flip back up and close, obscuring the paper inside of it again. "Take your time. Variation and variety tend to make things more palatable, yes?" He looks around the table one last time, tracing the 'U' shape of the booth with his eyes that linger on you for a charged moment until you meet his gaze. He heads back to the kitchen area to collect hot meals and serve his other customers.

Mal senses you watching him walk away.

There's a pull there that turns sharply gnawing as he traverses more of the black and white tiles that add distance between the two of you.

He'll have to endure it, waiting for another chance to interact with you—only you—again.

He hopes you'll make the right choices too.