#i hate what i named the pub but that's partially why i chose it lmfao

[theodej]

uhhhhh chapter 2 is up, come meet makwa

i’ll put it under the cut again, but after this i’ll probably just post them to ao3 ✌️ i’ll still link em here tho

The Wet Hen pub was overflowing with families and laughter that night. It was the kind of noise that shoved its way into every nook and cranny, bouncing off walls and seeping into the laminate.

It was someone’s birthday. (It was always someone’s birthday.) The girls were being corralled just behind the kitchen doors. Like every chain, they had their own butchered version of “Happy Birthday,” torn apart and glued back together with some particularly imperfect rhymes.

As was tradition, Makwa was hiding in the bathrooms. She’d shut herself in one of the stalls and sat on the toilet’s tank, resting her knee. It hadn’t been the same since she messed it up during soccer practice in high school. Hill didn’t like her wearing her brace to work. Of course, she never said a word about it; she couldn’t, unless she wanted HR up her ass. But she always treated Makwa differently when she wore it.

She didn’t trust the seats enough to actually sit on them, especially when it was her turn to clean. She flicked through her phone, waiting. It wasn’t long before the girls started singing and, muffled or not, someone smarter than her could probably pick out the dozen or so different keys they switched between. Whether you wanted to or not, you could hear the Wet Hen girls “singing” from the outskirts of town. It was the one thing they didn’t fake.

When the restroom door opened, Makwa held her breath. Footsteps shuffled on the tile—they didn’t sound like heels, boots maybe?—and stopped at the sinks. The taps were turned on, and the rush of water just barely covered the person’s sniffling. They muttered to themselves, tone hush but fervent, before shutting the water off. For a moment, all she heard was clapping and laughter from the restaurant proper. Then there was a soft sigh and, finally, they left. Makwa knew she should do the same, although there wasn’t any use in keeping up appearances anymore; Hill had definitely noticed her repeated absences during “birthday roundups.” One more minute of peace couldn’t hurt.

Hill wasn’t waiting outside the bathroom door for her, surprisingly.

“…the same guy as last time.”

“And you passed him off to someone else last time, too.”

But she was close, and she was using that even, soft tone of hers. That tone meant trouble, and trouble meant Makwa should keep walking.

“He’s creepy! And he’s, like, twice my age.”

Hill had pulled the youngest waitress aside to have one of her not-so-private discussions. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You can’t pick and choose your tables. If I let you switch now, would that be fair to everyone else?”

The girl bit her lip. She was clearly ready to back off. Hill saw it, too, judging by the sickly sweet smile on her face.

Just go already.

“You know the rules, Grace. You signed off on them.”

“I’ll take it,” Makwa said.

Stupid.

Hill turned to her, the smile melting off her face like wax. “Where have you been?”

“Just give me the table. I’m not doing anything right now, anyway.”

Grace’s shoulders relaxed instantly. “Are you sure?”

“Which table?”

“Twelve.”

Makwa nodded quickly before moving away, avoiding Hill’s eyes even as they burned a hole in her back. She gave herself a quick moment to scan the restaurant through the backroom door’s little window—a few new faces since she’d ducked away, all families—and headed back into the fray.

The Wet Hen’s décor could be best described as… overstimulating, at best. Imagine the tackiest southern belle you can think of. Now imagine her meemaw’s life exploding onto barn walls in a shower of sweet tea, cow skulls and ten-gallon hats. The paneled walls were covered in yellowed photographs and replica guns. There was even a tractor jutting out of one wall, as if someone was that desperate to get their hands on some over-sauced wings. It was a clusterfuck of colours and smells, and yet it was packed every Friday night.

“What dressing would you like with that?”

Makwa had found the table without any trouble. The man in question brought his wife and kid in, too, and despite his audience, it was immediately clear why Grace had made such a fuss.

“Balsamic, please.”

She felt his eyes on her.

She turned to the kid next. “And yourself?”

Makwa was painfully aware of the pub’s sorry excuse for a uniform—flannel and jean shorts.

“He’ll just have the chicken fingers.”

Makwa and her big mouth. She shouldn’t have cared.

“All right…”

She’d deliberately left him for last. Makwa didn’t ask him what he wanted, simply made eye contact (even if it made her spine crawl) and waited.

“Steak. Rare.”

Why did she always do this?

“And for a side?” She stared down at her notepad, moving slow, as if “steak” was taking all of her mental faculties to spell.

“What happened to the other girl?” He was smiling now. “She took our drink order!”

“I’ll get them. Your side?”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Maybe I’ll like you better,” he chuckled.

Makwa was still writing, waiting, and could his wife not see the look on his face? Or was she trying to ignore it, too?

“Just fries is fine.”

Finally. “Is that all?”

The moment his wife started nodding, Makwa was off. She felt eyes on her the whole way, and didn’t stop until she was safe in the backroom. Grace was there, looking for all the world like a scolded dog, a tray of drinks held in her shaking hands. Makwa only glanced at her before stopping at one of the countertops. The order was crumpled in her hands. She’d have to write a new ticket.

She cast quick glances over her shoulder as the girl approached. “You- you didn’t need to do that, you know. I mean, thanks, but you… I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to.”

“It’s fine.” The kid looked so relieved, and that made her look even younger. Makwa swore she must’ve lied about her age to get hired, but Hill probably didn’t care either way.

Grace was peering over her shoulder at the crumpled note.

… garden, balsamic kids tenders steakkk fuckk fuck you ff fries

“Did he, uh… do anything?”

Makwa shoved the paper into her pocket. “It was fine.” She hung the new ticket up with the rest, skin itching as Grace followed her. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Grace just stared. “Ms. Hill said–”

“Don’t worry about her. We’ve got your back here.”

The girl’s smile almost made this whole ordeal worth it. “Oh! Right, these are, um…” She looked down at the drinks, and Makwa took them without a word.

The man was smiling at her return, his eyes focused nowhere near her face.

Almost.

The last hours of her shift flew by. The creep’s family had finished eating a while ago, but Hill wouldn’t call it loitering yet. They were talking money, which meant their kid had resorted to running toy cars off any ramp-shaped surface in the restaurant, apparently hellbent on getting in everyone’s way.

The man had just ordered his fifth beer—the light ones, but what was the point if he drank so many?—and the inappropriate comments were only increasing. His wife gave her sympathetic looks, but didn’t acknowledge it otherwise. Makwa was starting to hate them both equally. When she trudged back, drink in tow, the kid was nowhere to be seen. He was someone else’s problem for now.

She had her eyes fixed on the table as she walked, counting the minutes till her shift ended—when her legs flew out from under her. Makwa landed flat on her ass, a shrill crash sounding behind her. Her knee ached. A few people came forward as she slowly registered the beer soaking through her shorts and the toy car rolling away from her.

That fucking kid.

“You okay?” The man stooped in front of her, reaching out with one hand.

There was a screech. Makwa scooted back, eyes fixed on him. His fingers only brushed her shoulder, but it felt like a burn. That heat shot to her hands next, and it took her a second to realize she was leaning on broken glass.

A modest crowd had gathered by then. Makwa shot upright despite the pain, took one second to check her knee—nothing out of place—and darted past them. There was a first aid kid in the back. Not that it did her much good. She fumbled with the latch, hissing. It kept slipping between her bloody fingers.

Someone was behind her.

She jumped back to see Grace, who took it as an invitation to open the kit herself. Makwa gave up and slumped against the wall. The pain wasn’t bad, but it was still too much. Hill was nowhere to be seen. Probably apologizing to that fucking asshole.

When Grace reached for her hands, it took everything she had not to pull away. The girl was gentle, but the contact couldn’t end soon enough. Makwa kept her eyes shut.

“We’ve got each other’s backs, remember?” Grace said quietly.

Back on the floor, one server had drawn the short straw and was sweeping up the glass with a hand broom. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but what was there looked so bright against the laminate. The brush bristles left red tracks behind them, drawing hypnotizing patterns with every movement.

“Um… Can I get you anything else?”

He hadn’t realized he was staring. He chuckled. “Nein, thank you,” he said, turning back towards the bartender. “Just the bill is fine.” He gave her a bright smile, and she nodded, returning it nervously as she looked at the scene behind him. Cute.

By the time he turned back, the unlucky server had switched to a mop. It wasn’t long before the mess was cleaned and sterilized, as if nothing ever happened. Soon, the manager dragged the waitress back out. Poor thing. She was apologizing, but didn’t look too happy about it. Her fingers picked at the bandaids covering her hands.

What a lucky day he’d picked to come! It wasn’t his favourite place to drink; the usual crowd wasn’t really his type. But he never turned his nose up at dinner and a show.