Chapter Text
Which 7-year-old talks about being a dating consultant? None. Right?
Well.
When Richard Tozier was seven years old, he told his parents he wanted to be a cupid when he grew up.
He still has memories about how it first came to him. Earlier that day, he'd spent an evening out with his oldest cousin, following her orders when she told him to walk over to the ‘cute’ guys playing soccer to ask them to teach him and watching as she pretended to find him a few minutes after and batted her eyelashes while talking to them. Later, with a phone number and a promise of ice cream, she'd say he was the best cupid anyone could ask for. It made him happy. It made complete sense at the time.
His parents indulged him, thinking he would get over it with time. Most kids let go of their childhood dream job.
Yet, as the years passed, Richie started to believe he actually had a secret power when it came to relationship stuff.
At age 7, he took pride in saying he was the reason his cousin got her first boyfriend. Then, in his first year of high school, he made a secret bet with his classmates that two of their teachers were going to fall in love – by december, they got engaged. He, more than once or twice, talked random neighbors into going on dates with each other and, again, more than once, they did end up together. Then, during college, he introduced his two best friends during a Valentine’s day hangout and they’ve been inseparable since, spotting shiny commitment rings on their hands.
His parents wanted him to graduate, so he did. Richie wanted to become a dating consultant (after he discovered there was actually a name for his dream job), so he did it, too.
Right now, he is waiting for a client.
This diner is a few blocks away from his apartment, but it's usually his preferred place to meet the suitors. It's cheap, for a start (this line of work won’t necessarily make him rich ), and lowkey, in a way that doesn’t risk the ‘anonymous’ part of his job. At first, he chose it simply because of their fluffy pancakes, an indication of a college friend. Now, he is pretty much a regular, both because of the work and the food. His favorite waitress, Agnes, an older woman with bleached hair and colorful nails, puts extra cream in his coffee when he catches her shift, and she makes sure not to be too expressive that Richie’s clients would fall under the impression that she is silently judging them.
Which she usually is, by the way.
“Ya boy is running late,” Agnes says, stopping by his table to deliver the coffee. “Tell him it must be why he won’t find a lady that sticks around.”
Richie laughs, “I think I’ll be opening with that. Thanks, Agnes.”
“It’s serious talk.”
“Oh, I know. For me, too. I think I’ll say something like,” he pretends to think, then puts on a voice. “ ‘Benny Boy, first step is buying you a fucking watch , what do you think?”
She steals a glance at the fretful dad and his child at the other table, but smiles anyway, “Language, Rich.”
He simply smiles back at her.
Agnes sighs, humored but clearly feeling antagonized by him. It’s a classic dance between them by this point. She gives advice before even meeting his clients or hearing about their problems, then shakes her head at him when Richie doesn’t take her word as universal truth. He thinks they’re pretty evening out. Agnes got a failed marriage that ended up in a messy divorce, and Richie hasn’t had a serious relationship since college (not that it matters, not when his knowledge works for others at least).
(She doesn’t know that sometimes he does share her advice.)
Richie drinks his coffee, taking his attention off the woman and following what her eyes are focusing on now – the television on the diner’s wall.
On the screen, there are images of a party taking place at a hotel he recognizes, an expensive one in the downtown area of San Francisco. The camera captures the street’s commotion, people getting out of their big cars, spotting long dresses, fancy suits and shiny shoes and talking to reporters. He doesn’t recognize most of them, apart from a few models and wannabe politicians from old money, conservative families. Some of them smile at the crowd and the cameras, others simply enter the building.
“What a shit show.”
“Indeed, dear Agnes.”
“Do you know what they’re even celebrating this time?”
“Nah. I think it’s just the monthly shoe licking,” Richie knows he spots a frown. “They don’t need an excuse to-”
Richie hears the man before he sees him. It’s already ten minutes past their agreed time. He turns around to follow the sound of a loud thud and watches as the face of the man responsible for that contorts in signs of a small pain as he messages the hip that collided against the diner's table. The man is tall, with muscular shoulders and almost sandy blond, and he wears a gray polo shirt tucked into his cargo pants, which almost offends Richie with how uninteresting it looks.
Oh, this must be him.
The guy just looks like a Ben.
Is it a compliment? No, not really. Not much of an insult either, because, after all, if Ben had everything going on for him, he wouldn’t even be looking for Richie in the first place and no one will catch him wishing he didn’t have a job – but, yeah, not a compliment.
He steals a glance as Agnes starts to discreetly move away from the space, as she always does. By the time the Ben-looking-guy reaches the table, she has left the space completely, making herself invisible by the counter, and Richie kinda hates how abruptly most of their conversations end.
With his attention back at Ben, he extends a hand for Richie to shake. Which he does.
“You must be Richie,” the guy says, with a nervous tone of voice. “I'm Benjamin. Hanscom. Ben, just Ben is fine.”
Richie doesn't comment on it, instead he asks, “How did you know it was me?” His website doesn't show a profile picture.
“Oh. Uh. You just fit into the description I got.”
This peaks his interest.
“Which is…?”
There’s a beat of silence between them.
“Nerdy glasses and scrawny,” Ben answers finally, with an embarrassed laugh like someone who knows he shouldn't have just said that, not as a first impression. “I'm friends with Eddie, he told me about your job.”
“I should've imagined by the description. That fucking asshole.”
Richie and Eddie have been close friends since high school. He loves the guy, but can't stand him some days.
“How do you like the place?”
Ben looks confused, “It's nice?”
“Why?”
“The tables are clean and the food smells good?”
“Why do you keep phrasing it like a question?”
“I-” he stops. “- don’t get it?”
They never do. That’s the point. There’s really nothing for them to get. It's just a thing Richie does to get a feeling of a first client, whether they're more shy, talkative, if they try and get a grasp on what he wants to hear or if it's all coming from the heart. Some of them feel a bit weirded out, and he can’t blame them, but, still, they’re the ones paying a stranger to tell them how to get a date, so…?
From what he has seen until now, Ben seems genuine in his words, although a bit introverted. Maybe too much of a people pleaser, maybe just trying to find the words that he thinks Richie wants to hear – he can’t be sure just yet.
Richie can work with introverted and likable people, like this guy seems to be.
In this business, it’s easier to fit his clients in these imaginary boxes, trying to get a shallow grasp of who they are, just enough to work with them, as he never gets much time to even get as far as truly bonding with anyone (and, honestly, half of them don’t make him wish to). He might even explain his line of thought to Ben himself someday, if there’s the time. Right now, he won’t. He gotta understand what this job expects from him first.
“Nevermind me. Go on. Tell me about your person.”
At the change of topic, his eyes sparkle. “Her name is Bev,” he smiles. “We went to school together.”
Bev and Ben? Huh. Nice combo of names.
It still takes him a moment, but Ben ends up getting a little more loose when talking about the woman. Richie discovers that they were sort-of friends during their high school years, although not super close, not even in the same hangout group. Bev sat by him during math, and they only started to acknowledge each other’s existence when both of them were sent to detention after spending the whole class drawing on their school books, frustrating their teacher. Ben swears he and Bev were supposed to get ice cream the summer after their senior year, but they never got the right time between her helping out her mom and him having to move out of town for college. They lost contact after that, until a few weeks ago, when he was surprised with a friend request from her.
Richie is slightly thrown off by the story. His clients are usually singles who decide to date someone they met at work or at the gym, but this is different. It seems they actually got some sort-of story already, even if it’s not one for the romance books… yet?
“Damn, man. What do you even need me for?”
Ben frowns, “We talk sometimes, usually about old colleagues and news, but, uh, I don’t know. She makes me nervous. I forget how to text and end up sounding like an idiot.”
Richie doesn’t comment on the fact that, from where he stands, Ben always seems nervous, although not an idiot.
“Sure. Maybe I can work with that,” he worked with way less before. “Do you have a pic of her?”
Ben turns on his phone, scrolls, then opens a Facebook page. Her profile picture is of a beautiful redhead with short hair, about chin length, with green eyes and wearing many necklaces, something fierce in her gaze. Then Richie reads ‘Beverly Marsh’ on the screen and, right under her name, ‘Fashion Designer at-’.
He recognizes that name. Richie would need to live under a rock not to recognize the woman’s name.
“Beverly Marsh ?”
“I know.”
“Didn't think you were going after a celebrity, my dude. What the fuck.”
“I know!,” Ben lowers his head to the table. “It's a terrible idea, isn't it? She doesn't see me like that.”
“Oh, Benny,” Richie pats his arm. “Stop whining.”
“...what?”
A celebrity… complicates things, for many reasons.
Reason number one: They’re busy, it’s hard to know what it’s disinterest and what it’s true lack of time, especially as the third time who grasps information through someone else. Richie isn’t an asshole, okay? He doesn’t want to keep getting money in exchange for one of his clients bothering someone who is clearly not into them, so he needs the clarification.
Reason number two: They’ve got many suitors. Usually rich, stylish and remarkably charismatic suitors. Damn, he would fold if someone flew him to Paris during a date, too.
Reason number three: The suspicion. He gets it, kinda – but the suspicion about a scenario where everyone that approaches them is only interested in the peaks of their fame and money does not make his business any easier.
For a start.
Still…
“Yeah, man. Relationships don't just fall in your lap. Yeah. Maybe this Bev woman just sees you as her shy, old classmate who doesn't completely suck, but wouldn't you like to know if there's a chance?”
“I guess so.”
Richie’s expression falls for a moment, while he channels the voice of his old middle school coach that convinced himself for three whole months that his student was the perfect addition for the swimming team. Right now there’s no smile, no joking tone, no nicknames, only the final question.
“You guess so?,” he asks, pointing at the guy. “Benjamin, would you like to know?”
“I guess,” Ben repeats.
“Because if you don’t, then we can cut it right now and waste neither your money nor my time and energy.”
He mumbles something.
Richie waits for him to try it again.
“I want to,” Ben says, louder this time. “I want to. I would like to know.”
“Great,” Richie answers with a smile and gets on his feet, leaving behind a dollar that doesn’t entirely pay for his coffee. “Let’s meet again on saturday, alrighty? Remember to send me your address.”
“Wait, but-”
“Saturday, Benny. Save your questions for saturday.”
On his way to the door, Richie waves goodbye to Agnes, who blows him a quick kiss. He hears Ben asking for the ‘Special Pancakes of the house’ before closing the glass door and heading for the street. Something nice fills Richie’s stomach at the prospect of having this guy as his new client – perhaps the realization he will keep being able to pay for his bills.
At this hour, with the sun having just set down, the streets are starting to get cold, but Richie has never had a problem with that, so he simply keeps walking down the sidewalk instead of thinking about calling a cab. He almost reaches the end of the diner’s window before a buzz in his pocket catches his attention. He gets a hold of it and reads the name on the screen before picking it up.
Connor B. (Client)
Oh, no, he thinks. Here we go again.
“Heyyy, my dude. How is it going?”
“Cut the crap, Tozier. I want my money back.”
Damn. That was fast.
Not wanting to stroke his own ego, but, when the words reach his ears, Richie can’t help but think about the fact that he has never heard it before.
“Trouble In paradise, Bowers?” the joking tone he was aiming for falls flat, which definitely doesn't help his situation. “Let's have a conversation, huh? If he isn't what you were-”
“St- We broke up. I want my money back.”
“Dude, how is that on me? I promised you a relationship, not a wedding.”
“You said-”
“Nu-uh. I never said it would last forever.”
The line is silent for a few seconds, a silence cut only by the buzz of people in Connor's background.
“I'm gonna sue you, Tozier.”
“Sure. See if I care,” then Richie hangs up in his face.
Truth is, he cares. Quite a lot. He doesn't know if Connor can actually do that, but it's not something he wants to risk finding out. That's why he doesn't like to work with fucking lawyers, always looking for reasons to sue people.
Without noticing, Richie has turned towards the diner again during the phone call. Both Ben and Agnes have their backs to him and they seem, to his surprise, caught in an easy conversation with each other. He thinks about whether to come back inside or leave to his own home, but something on the diner's TV catches his attention.
Him.
Richie recognizes the man on screen, with his dark curls and dimples. He looks the same as the picture Richie was shown a little more than three months ago, the suit he wears now only adding to the impression the consultant already had of him. A serious, closed-off man that Connor convinced himself he could charm and paid Richie to help him achieve that.
Stanley Uris . He remembers the name.
The same man who is now the reason Connor wants to scream his ear off and throw a lawsuit at him.
Well, fuck.