Work Text:
He’d have to thank Tony for getting him the gig.
Hal knew he wanted to work through the summer since December. Of course, like anything Harold Jordan ever did, he didn’t actually apply for any jobs until it was the middle of June and he had run out of time. Most of the positions that had opened for summer had already been filled by other high school students, and while Jordan had tried his best, all he could find were boring desk jobs where he was asked, continuously, if he would stay after summer had ended.
Which had been a resounding no, anyway, because once summer was over Hal was going to skip off to the closest Air Force recruitment center he could find.
So, when Tony convinced his dad to let Hal work at the restaurant for a couple of months, Jordan was ready to kiss his friend.
It wasn’t the most exciting job, but at least the pay was good (or as good as a summer job could get) and the company was great. He met Clint working at the kitchen, and Oliver, the head of waiters, and made fast friends with both of them even if the only form of communication they had was making silly faces at each other when they passed, or a couple of stories exchanged during break. Tony came to visit them regularly, even if he was already supposed to be at MIT, doing whatever it was that he was supposed to be doing up there.
The people he encountered at the restaurant were also interesting, at the very least. Tony’s dad, Howard, wasn’t a man that Hal sympathized with very much, but he had to agree that the Stark Diner was absolutely one of the hotspots of the town. It had stood there since the 60s, and no matter how many other businesses opened and closed around them, Stark Diner remained. It brought all sorts of people to eat there, constantly, locals and tourists alike, and Hal was fascinated with some of them.
There was one group in particular that Hal paid close attention to.
The first time they came in through the door, Jordan hadn’t thought much of them. They were a party of five, two women and three sturdy-looking men, and Hal managed to decipher the inscription emblazoned on the back of Long-Haired Bitch Face’s varsity jacket that announced he (and the others, presumably) attended some hot-shot university in Coast City. That was a thirty-five-minute ride from Middle-O-Nowhere-Population-300-Ville. Hal has no idea why these idiots drove all the way here for just burgers.
They all crowded into one of the circular booths in the left corner of the diner and started chatting amongst themselves in easy camaraderie. When Hal had picked up his notepad and pen to go attend to them, however, Howard Stark himself had stopped him.
Of all the rare occasions that Howard actually took time off his busy schedule to come down to the diner, the man had never once spoken to Hal beyond a couple of words. They had met on several occasions even before Jordan had started working for him, when Tony insisted that he should stay the night before a particularly nasty exam or after the several times they had partnered up for school work, and Hal couldn’t really say that he had a positive relationship with the man.
So, that day, as much as Jordan wanted to defy his silent order, he didn’t.
Instead, he watched Oliver serve them, even when that wasn’t exactly his job as head of waiters. Howard hadn’t given much explanation, but he did stroll to the booth and its occupants mid-way through their meal, talking excitedly and shaking hands with the three sturdy-looking dudes. Hal grew bored of Howard sucking up to a bunch of college students after a while, so he decided to ignore them for the rest of his shift.
A week passed before Hal saw them again, but this time, they brought two more people along with them, and that’s when Jordan knew he was done for.
One of the two newcomers is gorgeous. That’s literally the only word Hal actually finds for this man, as soon as he walks into the diner, and no matter how many times he looks at him, waiting for the charm to wear off, it’s still there no matter what. He’s blonde and not as sturdy-looking at the other three men he’s hanging out with, and instead of a varsity jacket, he wears the most ridiculous button up shirt ever known to man.
Hal would laugh if he wasn’t so damn struck with awe.
He’s not fast enough to serve them (Howard is not around, so he could’ve) and instead watches Oliver swoop in, all bright smiles and charming voice. Hal hates him for it.
After that week, Hal starts to notice how they come in on Thursdays, specifically. Some days the party will be complete, all seven members of the entourage sitting down at the same booth to either talk or get some unknown work done. Other days it will only be three or four of them, and Hal suffers when it’s Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt that isn’t with the group.
What’s worse is: Oliver just won’t let him wait on them. Ever.
Oliver only laughs at him when he asks what that is all about and tells Jordan that he’s just not being quick enough. Hal wants to punch Queen in the face but doesn’t try it because he could potentially lose his job. Instead, he moans about it to Tony when the man finally arrives at the diner that day, sitting himself at his usual table in the back, close to the kitchen.
“I could get you fired for moping around like this,” Tony tells him, nonchalantly, as he tinkers with something on the table, “you’re supposed to be waiting tables, Harold.”
Hal hates it when his friends use his complete name. He thinks it’s so disrespectful.
“If I don’t get to wait on his table soon, I think I may die.”
Tony let’s out an amused breath through his nose but doesn’t look up from his work.
“You’re as bad as Howard, Hally.”
He takes that as a very personal attack. “Why would you say such a terrible thing?”
His friend finally sets down his work on the table and turns up to look at Hal with big brown eyes. Jordan has always hated how long his lashes are and how stupidly smug he looks all the time.
“Remember when they got here the first time?” Tony asks him, pointing nonchalantly at the table in the corner, “How you told me Howard stopped you from waiting on them and then went on to shake their hands and be all annoying about it?”
Hal nods, a little unsure. He does remember, he just has no idea what Tony is getting at with all of this.
“Okay, good so,” Stark turns in his chair to face the booth at the other side of the restaurant, and nudges Hal to do the same, “Long Haired Bitch Face? That’s James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. Next to him, Bitch Face’s Boyfriend, is Sam Wilson. Opposite to them, Ridiculously Hot Stud—”
“No, that’s All-American Boy,” Hal interrupts, very seriously.
Tony shoots him a look that shuts him right up.
“Whatever, fine.”
“Ridiculously Hot Stud,” Tony continues, stressing his every word, almost as if daring Hal to contradict him again, “That’s Steve-fucking-Rogers.”
Hal remains absolutely quiet. He has no idea who any of these people are supposed to be.
“I clearly don’t expect you to know who the fuck any of them are because you’re a normal human being that has the honor of not sharing living space with Howard Stark,” Tony says, rolling his eyes at the end, “but they’re the all new, all different recruits from Coast City Uni. They’re big in collegiate football, not to mention Howard kisses the ground they walk on. That’s why Ollie’s been waiting on them all the time—the old man would never let anyone else near them, especially not his son’s least-favorite friend.”
Hal scoffs, rolling his eyes. Of course Howard sucks that much.
“And the rest?” he only wants to know who Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt is.
Tony sighs, and continues through with his explanation, “Next to Wilson is Natasha Romanoff—or maybe it was Natalia Romanova?” he pauses for a moment, before waving one of his hands nonchalantly, “Doesn’t matter, point is she’s some top lawyer’s daughter that Howard has had continuous business with in the past. They’re good friends, I suppose—or maybe it’s just good for business to have him on our side.
“Uh, next is Peggy Carter, also one of Howard’s business buddies’ daughter,” Stark hums, absentmindedly, “we’ve met a couple of times. She’s actually kinda alright—usually will say something to get Howard to shut up at dinner, which is pretty ballsy, in my opinion.”
“What about the other two?” please just tell me about Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt, Tones.
Tony turns to look up at his friend again and shrugs.
“Beats me, Hally, but they must be pretty up the ladder if they hang around with powerful people like that,” Tony turns back to his table in order to continue his work, “I’m just saying, if you keep drooling over Nerd in the Shirt, you’ll only succeed in looking like my father when one of Coast City Uni’s games is on,” he makes a face at his contraption and shakes, “it’s actually creepy.”
He doesn’t kill Tony that day simply because Oliver saw him slacking and barked at him to get back to work, but he vows he’ll do it some other time, away from unsuspecting eyes.
Next week, Oliver gets knocked down with a cold and some other waiter, Roy, picks up his slack for him. The diner is perfectly capable of working without Queen, of course, but things are different without him around. It’s a Thursday and Hal will be damned if he doesn’t get to wait on Superstar Table just so he can talk to Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt.
He stands watch, closest to the door as physically possible. Jordan still has to wait on other tables, so he asks Roy to give him the front of the diner in exchange for covering one of his night shifts in the weekend. Clint tells him he might’ve gotten overeager with the commercial exchange, but Hal just doesn’t care anymore. His Saturday will have to wait.
When they finally arrive, it’s like a choir of angels. Long Haired Bitch Face (Bucky?) is leading the group, saying something or other to his Boyfriend (Williams? No, Wilson!) as he pushes the door open for the rest of them to come inside. Redhead Wonder butts into the conversation, snapping some witty retort in answer, at which moment Long Haired Bitch Face (Was it Bucky?) let’s the door go to close right into her face. The woman doesn’t flinch, simply coming up to stop it from hitting her or Vintage Chick (he thinks that one is Peggy, but the names are already becoming fuzzy in his head) and pushing it open once again.
“Real mature, Barnes,” she says, smiling playfully and let’s the door close right as Small and Bossy, and Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt come in.
He’s wearing what is, perhaps, the most normal shirt Hal’s seen him wearing thus far. A red button up short-sleeved shirt with a pattern of yellow lightning bolts open over a simple white tee. His hair has gotten a little bit longer over the past two months that Hal has seen him come in and out of the diner, but he keeps it styled to one side, looking as if he’d run the entire distance from Coast City to this god-forsaken town just to get the burgers at Stark Diner without breaking a sweat and only earning him a windswept look for his troubles. Hal absolutely adores it.
“Hello, welcome to Stark Diner, my name is Hal and I’ll be your waiter for the day,” he starts his usual spiel, trying not to choke on the familiar words in front of Pretty Boy, “may I offer you anything to drink?”
Short and Bossy is the one to speak up first, “I think I’ll have a vanilla milkshake,” she says, looking at the menu as if she hadn’t been here a thousand times before, “I’ve been craving one the past two weeks and these jerks left me behind last time.”
Hal nods, his smile never leaving his face, and he jots down the first order in his chicken scrawl at the top of the notepad. He turns to Long Haired Bitch Face next, who’s sitting just to the right of Short and Bossy, “For you, sir?”
Maybe a haircut? He adds unhelpfully in his head.
“I think I’ll have some water,” his friends around him snicker and he rolls his eyes, “Oh, shut up, you idiots. It’s hot outside, I’m trying not to get dehydrated.”
“Sure thing, Buck,” All-American Boy answer from the opposite side of the table, and then continues, “I’m going to be incredibly rude and order ahead, but I’m starving; do you think I could ask for the Iron Man Burger?”
Jordan nods again, jotting down in his notepad, “One Iron Man Burger for the traitor,” he tries his luck at a joke, and hopes this isn’t the goddamn reason he gets fired, “anything else?”
To his luck, laughter echoes across the table. He focuses on the way Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt sitting in the back of the booth laughs and his chest fills with warmth, his belly fluttering with butterflies. Not only is he pretty, but Hal is a 100% sure that his laughter could fix any of his terrible days and turn them into good.
“If Steve’s gonna order then I think I’ll ask for a plate of crisscut fries to go with Iris’s milkshake,” Vintage Chick says, smiling pleasantly, “Please, Hal.”
“Sure thing,” he scribbles, but doesn’t have the time to bounce back before Long Haired Bitch Face speaks again.
“Yeah, I’ll get the Black Widow Club Sandwich,” the man says, then, as an afterthought, adds, “Can you maybe take out the tomato sauce and just add tomato slices?”
Hal wants to say something about how the tomato sauce makes the Black Window Club Sandwich but decides against it completely and just jots down the order, nodding in silence. He continues writing down the dishes, adding some witty quip here and there to try to elicit laughter from Pretty Boy again—the best he gets is a shy smile directed at the menu. Hal tries not to take it personally, but he’s pretty sure they all know their menu by heart already.
“So,” there’s a lull there, when no one continues the orders, and Hal notices it’s Pretty Boy’s turn—he’s going to take his chance, it’s now or never, “What can I get the pretty boy in the lightning bolt shirt?”
Several heads snap up at him in disbelief, but none of them matter because this is the first time he actually notices how blue Pretty Boy’s eyes are. Hal tries not to make it too noticeable, but he does lose his breath for a second there, as he makes eye-contact with the other man sitting at the back of the booth, right in front of him. He notices, quite proudly, the color running up to decorate Pretty Boy’s cheeks, and is delighted when he can make out the small sunspots littering the other man’s face.
God, Pretty Boy in Funky Shirt only gets better the more Hal stares at him.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed before All-American Boy nudges his friend lightly in the ribs, murmuring a soft Barry? that doesn’t get lost in Hal’s ears. He’d whoop in celebration over finding out Pretty Boy’s name and making him blush within the same action if he wasn’t still in front of the customers. He’ll make sure to celebrate with Clint in the kitchen when he has the chance.
And if this doesn’t blow up spectacularly in his face.
“I, uh--” Barry (and what a wonderful name that is) is having a hard time stringing his words together, and Hal tries not to feel too proud about it, except he is, “I will--I think I’ll get--uh…”
His voice trails off, unable to form any coherent sentences or get anything past his lips. He points at something in the menu that All-American Boy takes a peek at and nods.
“He’ll have a strawberry milkshake for now,” the bigger blonde man says, smiling up at Hal, “Thank you, Hal, that’ll be all.”
Hal nods once, beaming, before turning on his heels and hastily makes his way back to the kitchen. He feels high on adrenaline now, even when, as far as interactions go, what just happened back at the table with him and Barry (and, wow, he’ll never stop using his name) seems absolutely inconsequential. It doesn’t matter to Jordan, because he’s been waiting two months to finally be able to wait on Barry’s table just to exchange a couple of words.
It’s everything he envisioned and more.
“Earth to Harold,” Clint’s voice cuts through his thought, as the man is currently trying to get the table's order, “you’re gonna give this to me, or will we let table six starve?”
It takes a few second for Hal to get pulled completely back to reality, but when he does, he grins straight at Clint and hands him the notepad paper he had been holding close to his chest by now.
“I got his name,” he says proudly, as if it had been his biggest accomplishment.
Clint, already too focused in trying to understand Hal’s chicken scrawl, mutters something under his breath about how happy he is for Jordan, waving a hand up in the air as he retreats back into the kitchen. Hal couldn’t care less if his friend had dismissed him that way. There was no way anything could bring him down currently.
Except he spoke too soon, because of course Howard Stark had decided to tag along with Tony when he visited today, and they were now sitting at Tony’s usual table right by the kitchen entrance. Where they have a perfect vision of the rest of the diner. Where Howard could see Hal breaking his rules by talking to the one table he shouldn’t be talking to.
“Jordan,” comes Howard’s voice, cold and commanding just as he steps outside the kitchen with another table’s refill, “who’s taking care of table six while Oliver’s sick?”
Hal pauses for a second, balancing the tray on top of his hand and shifting his weight from one leg to the other before he drops anything. He thinks briefly about lying to his employer and telling Roy to fill in for him while Howard is here, but all it takes is one second of bravery (or stupidity) for him to decide against it.
“Roy’s covering for Oliver,” he begins, luring Stark Senior into a false sense of security before bursting his bubble, “But I’m in charge of the front of the diner today, sir. I’m serving table six.”
Tony picks his head up from where it’s hunched over his latest pet project, beaming with pride at his best friend, and looking like he’s seconds away from bursting out laughing.
“So much for keeping them coming back,” the young engineer taunts, and Hal wants to punch him a little because he’s not helping, “Don’t worry, Howard, I’m sure Carter will continue to make business with you even if Hal dumps an entire milkshake on his daughter’s head.”
The moment Howard turns to scowl at his son is the moment Hal turns to glare at him, mouthing a ‘not helping’ and begging Tony to cut it out with a quick motion of his hands. Stark Senior only wastes thirty seconds on his son before turning back to his employee.
“I trust you everything has been according to company standards?”
Hal tries not to roll his eyes, changing his tray from one hand to the other, “Of course, sir. You should trust me a little bit more.”
They hold each other’s gazes for a moment, before Hal clears his throat.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mister Stark,” he says, taking one step forward, “I have tables to attend to.”
Howard only nods at him professionally, turning his body back towards his son on the other side of the table, and allowing Hal to breathe normally again. When he takes a peek at Barry’s table, the smaller blonde man is nowhere in sight, and Jordan’s heart sinks in his chest.
He makes his way to one of his other tables, setting down the food and drinks they had ordered and wishing them a good meal, before hurrying back to the kitchen as Clint rings the bell again when the next order is up. He’s not used to waiting on the front of the diner, so he has to admit his reaction time is a little slower today. Hal really hopes Howard isn’t noticing any of this. It’s not like he knows how Hal works normally.
Jordan comes and goes to and from the kitchen a couple of times, and manages to not look longingly at the table where Barry is supposed to be sitting. He tries to calm himself by telling his insecurities that there’s no way Barry went back to Coast City when all of his friends are still sitting at the table, chatting amongst themselves in that private way they always do when they come here on Thursdays.
When he finally goes into the kitchen to retrieve table six’s order, he does his best to balance all of the dishes. He hates leaving customers waiting for their food while others in the same table had already gotten it, so this is the one thing he’ll go above and beyond for. Especially if it’s the Barry Table.
As he makes his way back into the diner, he shoots Howard a challenging look and then continues on his path.
“Food’s here, kids,” he says, although he’s aware they must be at least a year older than himself, “Get ready.”
He sets down the tray on the table right in front of their usual booth, trying not to spill any of the contents in it, and mentally patting himself on the back on a job well done. If this had been anything like his first week on the job, Hal is sure he would’ve ruined Clint’s hard work in the kitchen. He’s gotten better at not making a mess in the diner thanks to Oliver.
As he turns with the first order in hand, he notices Barry’s not sitting in the far back of the booth anymore, instead having taken Vintage Chick’s place at the beginning of the table starting on his left. Hal tries not to think too much about the change, and smiles pleasantly as he sets down the milkshake and crisscut fries in front of Vintage Chick, who has now taken a seat on the opposite side of the table, and Short and Bossy, who claps her hand as soon as her milkshake is set down in front of her.
Next, he delivers the Black Widow Club Sandwich, without tomato sauce, and makes a small comment about how Clint fussed about his precious Club Sandwich being defiled that way that has Long Haired Bitch Face smiling sheepishly into the glass of water Hal set down for him as well.
“Please thank the cook for me,” this is the first time Long Haired Bitch Face doesn’t look like he has a bitch face, and it surprises Hal in a good, sort of way, “I’m sure the sandwich will be spectacular.”
Hal nods, turning back towards his tray to get Bitch Face’s Boyfriend's order (the Ant-Man veggie burger and a lime soda) before setting it down in front of him. All-American Boy stares at him, expectantly, but Jordan simply decides to grab Redhead Wonder’s Hawkeye Chicken Burger and lemonade, and skip him altogether.
“Traitors get their food last,” Hal explains, reveling in the pained expression All-American Boy makes when he does and the short burst of laughter coming from Barry (god, how can anyone be so cute?), before turning back to grab the last burger and the strawberry milkshake still left in the tray, “Lucky for you, we’re almost done.”
He sets down the Iron Man in front of All-American Boy, and finally turns around towards Barry, who hasn’t stopped looking at the table since he got here. From Hal’s vantage point standing over him, he can only see the tip of his ears burning red, but he does figure that the rest of his face is equally so.
What happens next he would’ve never expected.
Hal is about to say something flirty, as he’s setting down the strawberry milkshake, but Barry beats him to it.
“Hey, um--” his voice is literally the softest thing Hal has ever heard before, “Hal, right?”
Jordan nods, smiling, and doing his best to ignore the feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. He hasn’t left the milkshake on the table, his body tense and on high alert. He should’ve known this was going to happen. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and not ruin this. Of course Barry wouldn’t like being hit on by some random dude in some random diner in God-Forsaken-Town-Of-Hell.
“I was, well,” Barry’s taking too long with his rejection, Hal would like it if it could just be over already, “You know, my friends and I come here very often--every Thursday, at five on the dot, and well, I--”
“Out with it, Bar,” Long Haired Bitch Face barks on the opposite side of the table, his sandwich between his fingers, “or I’ll do it myself.”
“No!” Barry’s answer is quick, as his hands come up to eye level, begging his friend to stop, “I’m sorry--I’m just--it’s just...”
“Barry thinks you're cute,” Short and Bossy says nonchalantly, grabbing one of Bitch Face’s fries and dipping it in her milkshake, “He was hoping you’d go on a date with him.”
Which is about the moment that Hal’s fingers slip, and the strawberry milkshake clatters to the table, spilling all of its contents on Barry’s lap, who squeaks in response. Jordan is mortified. He pulls out at the cloth napkin waiters are made to wear inside their aprons’ front pocket as part of their uniform code, going into a spiel about how sorry he is and how stupid he was for dropping the milkshake.
Hal leans down to help Barry get rid of the milkshake that hasn’t been completely soaked up by his pants, and doesn’t think twice before patting at Barry’s lap, something that, in retrospect, is probably going to get him fired. The blonde man lets out an undignified squack, trying to tell Hal that it’s quite alright, but the waiter doesn’t seem to be listening.
Before he can continue apologizing, Tony’s by his side, pulling him back away from Barry so he stops humiliating himself like this. Howard is there too, apologizing for the inconvenience and offering to pay for their lunch for their troubles. Hal barely registers as All-American Boy tries to explain that there’s really no need for that, and that accidents happen all the time, but Howards insists.
“It’s alright, Mister Stark,” Vintage Chick’s voice is soft, but very firm, “Hal’s service was delightful today, it was just a simple mistake.”
Tony pulls him away from the table, making haste to the kitchen before Howard has any time at reacting. Hal is out of it, still in shock--if from the indirect confession or having dropped the milkshake all over Barry, he’s still trying to figure out--and Stark junior is trying to get him to regain his bearings.
“C’mon, Hally!” Tony slaps his cheek a couple of times, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground him back to earth, “Howard’s about to step into this kitchen and rip you a new one; you need to snap out of it.”
Hal is just barely conscious when his employer storms into the kitchen, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him all the way out of the backdoor.
“What was that all about?” Howard is all up in his face, and Hal takes a step back without meaning to.
“It was a mistake,” Jordan bites back, his grit coming back to him, “I didn’t mean to do it. I’m not purposefully trying to get myself fired,” and then as an afterthought, “sir.”
“Do you know who that was?” Hal has seen Howard berate Tony over insignificant things and have felt pissed of--now that his employer is screaming at him he only wants to punch him for having put his friend through this constantly, “Answer me, boy! Do you have any idea who you just spilled a milkshake all over?”
Hal steels himself, tilting his chin upward, “That would be Barry, sir,” he says, “in the Funky Shirt.”
Howard look like he’s about to lose it. Jordan loves every second of it.
“That was Barry Allen, Jordan!” if that is supposed to tell Hal anything, it really isn’t. When he doesn’t get a reaction from the name alone, Howard continues, “He’s Coast City’s Track and Field Champion! He’s this close to getting onto the national team! And you just go ahead and spill strawberry milkshake over him? Jordan, I knew you were an idiot, but--”
Before Howard can finish his sentence, the backdoor to the restaurant opens, and Clint is left standing there, looking like a fish out of the water, trying to find the words.
“What is it, Barton?” Howard looks threateningly at the young cook, one hand coming up to rub at his forehead.
Clint simply points behind him, and tries to get his brain to catch up with him, “Uh, well--I, uh--think your wife’s at the door.”
Hal hopes, for Clint’s safety, that Maria Stark really is at the diner’s door.
As soon as Howard stalks back into the restaurant, Hal’s body releases all the tension it had been holding. He has no idea why Start senior is so obsessive over these college students, but he’s glad for Clint’s help. The waiter walks to the door, sighing softly, and presses a hand to Clint’s shoulder to push them both back inside.
“I really hope Mrs. Stark was out there, Clint,” he mumbles, as the door closes behind them, “Or we’re both gonna get fired.”
It turns out Maria was at the diner. Tony had called her in a hurry after sending Clint after Howard and Hal to save their friend’s ass, and since the Starks lived just a couple of blocks from here, the woman did arrive just in time to occupy her husband’s attention. Hal has always liked Maria much better than Howard. Not only was she kinder to Tony, but she welcomed Hal at their home without much hassle.
He gets back to work. Kyle and Guy had cleaned off table six while he was getting verbally abused by Howard Stark in the back of the diner, and the party of seven had now moved to a long table close-by. Roy pleads him to attend his usual area in the back corner of the diner to avoid anymore trouble, and Hal snaps back into waiter mode almost immediately.
Jordan can’t help but feel humiliated and silly. As he tends to the other customers in the diner, trying to maintain his usual cheery disposition, he feels as if he’s being watched. He doesn’t know what he’d like better: Howard’s disapproving stare or Barry’s disgusted look from across the diner. Not once does he turn to find out which of these are right, simply drowning himself in his work and letting the hours pass him by.
Hal only barely registers when Barry’s friends file out of the diner later. The only indicator of their departure being the ring of the bell hanging over the door and All-American Boy’s voice thanking Roy for the food and the service.
He stays until closing time, because Maria managed to convince Howard not to fire his ass on the spot, and cleans every table until they’re spotless. Tony and Clint help, because they’re actually not terrible friends after all, and they worry about Hal more than they’re both willing to admit. They work in silence, scrubbing the tables and sweeping the floors. None of them dare talk about the events that unfolded in the diner that day.
But Hal thinks. He thinks of Barry’s blue eyes and the couple of sunspots that adorn his cheeks. They remind him of his own freckles, except Jordan is sure that Barry’s sunspots are otherworldly and ethereal. He thinks of Short and Bossy’s words, how she confessed her friend’s feelings for him, and Barry’s nervous voice stumbling through the dialogue he never managed to get out.
He’s smitten, and he absolutely adores it.
They’re already finishing up the last things around the diner, putting brooms, mops, and rags away where they belong, when they hear the distinct ring of the bell fill the empty locale.
“We’re closed,” Hal mumbles from his place behind the bar, his back to the door, “You might want to come back tomorrow at eight on the dot. We have killer breakfasts.”
Clint and Tony don’t say anything as they file into the kitchen, leaving Hal alone with the pesky customer. He has no idea what that is all about, as he knows for a fact the other person hasn’t left the diner. Jordan turns on his heels, ready to tell whoever it is to please leave the diner because there’s no way he’s serving someone this late.
Before the words can leave his mouth, he is met with blue eyes and the softest of smiles.
Barry’s changed out of the clothes he had been wearing earlier that day, when he was having lunch with his friends, instead choosing to wear a bright green tee with a black jacket over it. He’s wearing sweats now, and running shoes, and Hal wonders if this is what he usually wears when he’s training.
“I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble,” Barry’s voice is soft, sweet, and Hal could drown in it, “My friends can be a little blunt.”
Hal doesn’t know what to say, so he just stares at the man in front of him, mouth slightly agape.
“I’m Barry,” he continues, as if Jordan hadn’t learned his name the moment All-American Boy had mumbled it earlier, “Barry Allen.”
Yeah, Hal wants to say, hot-shot college track racer and apparently way out of my league. I know.
“I hope it doesn’t come out as creepy, or weird,” Barry becomes sheepish all of a sudden, rubbing the back of his neck in what seems to be a nervous tic, and Hal adores it, “But ever since Bucky and Steve started bringing us up here on Thursdays for meals, I’ve been--well, I guess I sort of developed a crush on you.
“It was such a bummer that you never got to wait on us before today,” he says, chuckling lightly, “I kept telling them that we should move to the back of the diner, since it’s usually the zone that you wait on, but Nat and Sam didn’t want to leave the booth, which is stupid, right? It’s only a booth.”
Hal thinks he’s been quiet for too long, so he will himself to say something, anything.
“It is now a sticky booth, actually,” not that, damn it, “I think we’ll have to change the seats’ cover.”
Jordan wants to slap himself, but Barry just laughs. It’s definitely the most amazing sound Hal has ever heard.
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a bummer. I guess Nat and Sam will have to change their habits,” the blonde man’s voice trails off, and he looks a lot less confident than he did at the beginning. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and smiles nervously, “I was hoping I could get an answer.”
“An answer?” Hal repeats, like some kind of idiot robot.
“Yeah,” Barry chuckles a little, looking away from Hal, that lovely blush coming to cover his cheeks again “about, you know, going out with me?”
There’s silence then. Hal’s neural responses are still not working.
“Just say yes, you idiot!” Tony’s voice coming from the kitchen breaks through the lull, effectively snapping Jordan out of his reverie.
“Yes!” maybe that’s too aggressive, Hal thinks, and then corrects, “I mean, yes. Of course. I would love to go out on a date with you. Any day. At any time. Hopefully soon.”
The grin that breaks across Barry’s face is enough to set fireworks going off in Hal’s chest.