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The glass doors of Naomi's office swing against the wall so hard she's surprised they don't shatter. She jumps and looks up, startled, to see an archangel with fox-tilted eyes swagger into her office.
"Gabriel," She starts, and finds herself with too many questions to continue.
He stops suddenly, as much surprised by her, and narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Cas told me Metatron was in charge. Said he killed you, missy."
"No, he only surprised me," She says.
"Where is he, then?" He plants a hand on her desk and leans into it, staring her down.
She stares back, determined not to wither under his gaze. "Secure. Locked in the room with the screaming walls."
His eyebrows shoot up appreciatively, and he nods. "Alright, Nurse Ratchet, you've had your fun." He jerks his thumb. "Outta the chair."
Her legs move her from behind the desk out of instinct, standing in the presence of the archangel. "You've returned," She says dumbly.
"Yep, entirely against my better judgement, but somebody's gotta save your sorry butts from extinction. Fine mess you've made of this place while I was gone." He flops down into the chair and rests his sneakers on the desk.
"There hasn't been an arch in heaven for years," Naomi manages as a sort of excuse, still stunned.
"Well, there's one now," He glares, "and you can stow your creepy Orwellian regime. In fact, throw all your brainwashing equipment into the Styx, because you won't be needing it anymore. I've got another job in mind for you." The smile he gives her makes her stomach drop.
"Oh?" Her voice is higher than she expects. She tips her chin up and squares her shoulders, half expecting him to smite her on the spot.
There's a gleam in his eye. "Get me a cup of coffee."
---
That's how Naomi finds herself behind a polished wood counter in an apron and a visor she refuses to wear. Heaven's coffee shop sits next to the gift store, which is full of overpriced memorabilia so cutesy it verges on blasphemous. The House of Corrections looks more like an American supermall than the fearsome Heavenly Machine it once was. The Prophet Kevin Tran's gracious work translating the angel tablet has put them leaps and bounds closer to restoring heaven's decimated angel population, and between Metatron's fallen angels trickling back into heaven and wanderlust hunters paving the Axis Mundi, the path outside her little coffee shop sees plenty of traffic.
Fortunately, Naomi still has a fearsome reputation, even as low as she's fallen, and it doesn't take much more than a well-timed and quietly threatening smile to dissuade most customers from entering the shop. Everyone, that is, except for Gabriel, who leers his own shiteating grin right back at her as he puts in his order for the day. Gabriel's afflicted with the sickliest sweet tooth she's ever seen, and doesn't so much drink coffee as he does a near-solid concoction of vaguely coffee-flavored syrup. That is, until he spends more time hanging out in the cafe mocking her career change than he does running heaven like he's supposed to be doing, in which case his cup is mostly coffee grounds steeped in salt water. It ends up sprayed across his desk, but she gets her point across, and he knows a good prank when he sees one.
After that, Gabe is in too much of a rush to give Naomi grief, running thin managing the affairs of heaven and whatnot, which she understands all too well. The Chorus--or angel radio, as the humans crudely call it--is ever-alight with prayers and pleas, and that's only counting the angels. She knows from personal experience it never gets easier: solve one problem and seven more crop up in its place. The point is, she keeps her ear to the ground, and on bad days she makes sure his "coffee" is exactly the pick-me-up he needs.
But a slow day was inevitable, she thinks tragically, as Gabe leans one arm on the counter with a frown and surveys the empty room with a "Kinda dead in here, don'tcha think?"
"Is it?" She feigns surprise.
"Usually coffee shops serve coffee," He says, and adds, "to more than one person," after she glances pointedly at the cup in his hand.
"My doors are always open," she says with a baffled shrug.
He leans in intimidatingly close for a moment. "Look, as much as I adore having all of your attention, I'm not the only angel up here who could use a good drink, and the only reason you're not Gracelessly rotting away on Earth is because you genuinely, misguidedly, want to help Heaven. So, suck it up and help."
"By serving coffee." She raises an eyebrow.
He smirks and raises his drink to her as he leaves. "Don't underestimate the power of a good cuppa joe, Naomi."
The jingle of the doorbell leaves her in silence, and the rest of the day lumbers on unbearably slowly, giving her plenty of time to mull over his words. After all, it's not the worst job she's ever had. It's certainly better than her last one; no one ever asks her to rescue angels trapped in the teeth of leviathan or the hands of devils, or expects her to consort with demons, or holds her accountable for Heaven's future.
The tinkling of the doorbell snaps her out of her reverie and heralds the entrance of a cherub, who drags himself to the counter and orders two espresso shots, evidently too tired to be bothered by her reputation. Naomi looks over the nude, overworked creature; that much caffeine would only give him a headache and sour his attitude even further, and a disgruntled cupid's a terrifying thing. She gives him a reassuring smile, turns to her machines for a moment, and hands him a perfectly swirled chocolate-caramel mocha topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.
"This isn't what I ordered," He grumps.
"Oh?" She says innocently. "My mistake. It's on the house."
He huffs and bumbles off, taking an absent minded sip. It stops him in his tracks. She can see the tension roll out of his shoulders, and with a small happy hiccup he wanders back to his duties, some pep already coming back into his step.
Naomi smiles. The doctor is in.
Business in the shop picks up when the cupid returns with friends. Once Naomi starts looking, it's not hard to diagnose a customer's troubles and prescribe the right balance of flavors and stimulants. She can only work little miracles--gone are the days of wrestling elbow-deep with the nitty gritty breakdowns in an angel's psyche--but everyone leaves her shop brighter, clearer-headed, and sharper than they entered. She's doing her part, she smirks; a little cog turning in the Heavenly Machine.
Of course, that Heavenly Machine works much differently now. Angels pick their own tasks, instead of being assigned to them; some leave altogether to wander the Earth. Most stay. Kevin's angel tablet reveals how to resurrect angels. Gabriel is very selective about who he brings back, although angels can petition for their loved ones. Naomi doesn't mention Raphael. She knows Gabriel would never risk another war, and she's accepted that she'll never see a regent like Raphael in Heaven again. Hester, on the other hand, makes it through just fine, and works with Naomi behind the counter to get her legs back.
Not to say Naomi agrees with much of Gabriel's leadership. Humans are too involved in decision making, the appeals system is deeply flawed, and the entire process of angelic reintegration is a joke. In no case is this more evident than the day Abaddon comes slinking into her coffee shop with a wicked smile and a "Hey there, gorgeous," dripping from her damned tongue.
For a split second Naomi is a whirlwind of indecision, sword clenched in her fist, her modest lipstick pristine and unsmudged, a sudden twisting sensation in her chest. What drops from her lips isn’t a kiss or a curse, it’s a name: “Ruth,” which drains the expression from Abaddon’s face. Naomi decides that’s a victory, even if it doesn’t feel like one.
“No such person,” And that awful smile is back, all sharp white and vivid red.
Naomi returns the gesture, close-mouthed, ineffable. “It’s a new heaven, dear. Stranger things have happened.”
“No kidding,” Abaddon quirks an eyebrow and glances her over with a derisive snort, mulling over some cruel jab about how the mighty have fallen. Somehow making the servant of heaven stand in placid silence is humiliating enough to satisfy her, and instead she bares her teeth in a lopsided grin and tongues a canine with a lingering, hungry look.
“So. What’s a girl gotta do to get a decent cuppa coffee around here?” She leans on the counter, all leather jacket and pale wrists and bared throat. Naomi cocks an eyebrow.
“I suppose this is all a part of your plan to overthrow Paradise.”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Abaddon winks, “First the coffee shop--then the world.”
“And what contrived, forgotten loophole did you have to slip through to get up here?” Naomi sneers.
Abaddon rolls her eyes and straightens. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the front door. Gabe’s Forgiveness for the Fallen initiative leaves the Pearly Gates wide open. I’m surprised Lucifer himself hasn’t waltzed back in.”
A dark look crosses Naomi’s features, but she only snorts, sliding her sword back into its sheath in her sleeve and turning to her machines. “Seems to me you’re risking an awful lot just for a cup of coffee, Miss Queen of Hell.”
“It’s damn good coffee.” Abaddon leans over the counter unsubtly as Naomi bends to retrieve some ingredient. “I was a little worried about getting re-educated, but...”
“I don’t do that anymore,” Naomi affirms.
“Sure, sure,” she grins, eyes flicking back up to meet Naomi’s as she turns to slide a tall mug of steaming black Turkish coffee across the glass pastry display. Abaddon closes her fingers around Naomi’s, holding her still for a conspiratory moment. “You’re not going to report me now, are you?”
“What, a fallen angel in my cafe?” Naomi smiles back. “The scandal.”
Abaddon visits whenever she can after that, kicking her heels from her seat on the counter, or crouched under it out of sight of Naomi’s other customers. Hester knows, of course, having once caught the two of them entangled in the supply closet, and is intensely unhappy about keeping Abaddon’s presence a secret.
--
More angels trickle in, and Naomi gets to know heaven’s citizens by their drink orders. Uriel (earl grey tea) comes every day, and says the novelty never wears off. Inias (pumpkin chai latte, no foam) comes with him but lingers after he leaves, hoping to exchange soft words with Hester (black coffee, two sugars) when she has a spare moment. Rachel and Anna (americano with foam and iced caramel mocha, respectively) usually prefer to give their orders to Hester, their memories of Naomi’s chair still too vivid in their minds.
When Samandriel comes back, Naomi takes off her apron and invites him to a secluded table, where they sit and talk in low, somber tones for a long time. Naomi's hands clench into fists on the table, and she falls silent, unable to look at him. Samandriel places his open hands over hers and speaks softly to her, ducking his head to catch her gaze. She nods.
He works the postal service now for the human souls, passing messages back and forth between centuries-old penpals. (Peppermint white mocha with whipped cream: seasonal for everyone but him.)
Hester talks sometimes about what she’ll say when Castiel comes back. Naomi listens, but she’s not holding her breath. If he did come in, though, she’s already got him pegged: plain cheap black Columbian diner brew, a cruel jab she wouldn’t be able to resist. Some tastes are more about the memories they invoke than about the flavor itself.
Of course, once Ash orders his six-shot espresso, the rest of the human souls just waltz right in whenever they feel like it. Naomi doesn’t show a bias to who she serves, having been told repeatedly by Gabriel that all citizens of Heaven were equal, human and angel alike. Jo Harvelle came up with a name for the place: Order Up!, and even designed a logo which Gabriel promptly fell in love with and implemented on the spot. Naomi even employs a young man named Tony with a broad smile and wide shoulders who delights in whipping up experimental concoctions for anyone he can talk into trying them. After all, who is she to stand in the way of his idea of heaven?
It's a few weeks later when a review shows up in the newspaper. (A purely human construct, since angels only have to tune in to the Chorus to know what's happening, and don't need sheaves of cheap paper with crude cartoons and static symbols to convey meaning and information--not that anyone asked Naomi.)
Naomi leans over Hester’s shoulder to see the title: Naomi's Caffiene Regime: Insidious Chemical Conspiracy, or Just Really Good Coffee? an investigation by Anna Milton.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she says.
Everyone else surrounds Hester's copy of the Paradise Post, anxious to hear what the article has to say about their little cafe.
"Located just off the Axis Mundi is a little coffee shop called Order Up! that’s home to one of the most dramatic redemption stories heaven has to offer. Former Director of the House of Corrections and ex-Regent Naomi now serves at the pleasure of the common angel, stirring up an impressive variety of hot and cold drinks, from Milwaukee gas station coffee to Earl Grey worthy of the Queen of England. But don’t be intimidated by Order Up!’s vast menu; Ash isn’t far off when calls her the Soviet Barista, claiming "Naomi's coffee orders you." "
Naomi raises an eyebrow at Ash, who stands and solemnly salutes her from his wireburdened table across the room. Hester continues: "For those of us preoccupied during the 1950's, the human hunter and innovator behind trans-heaven travel is pulling a parallel between the Soviet Union's communist regime and Naomi's uncanny ability to know her customer's orders better than, and often before, they do. Some fear her old position in the Ministry of Mercy as a re-educator might tempt her to drug drink orders with mind-altering chemicals of her own design, but several in-depth studies have shown beverages Naomi has personally prepared have nothing out of the ordinary that might make angels or human souls more susceptible to suggestion, and were above-average in flavor and overall quality. Not only that, but those who drank beverages from Order Up! were more alert, better-tempered and more focused than those who drank comparable beverages prepared at other establishments.
"Although she no longer runs heaven from behind glass doors and has passed over the drill for an espresso machine, many still suspect Naomi of pulling strings from behind the counter. The former Regent of heaven, however, would offer no comment on the subject, saying with a shrug and an apologetic smile that the political climate of Paradise was "no longer my business" and "I just make the coffee." “