Chapter Text
Wednesday was New Year’s Day. A holiday. They were closed. But it was also the first of the month, and the first of the month was inventory. And Clover loved inventory. So Clover came in.
His team thought he was crazy. ‘Obsessive compulsive’ was the way Harriet phrased it. But Clover needed to know, down to the gram, exactly how much of every single ingredient they had. Specifically, in that liminal space between closing in one month and opening in the next. He’d tried to outsource the task, but no one else ever did it the way he liked it. Consistency was key. They couldn’t be measuring chocolate well into the third of the month, when they’d already blasted through half a case. Nor could they be ‘eyeballing’ expensive ingredients, or massaging the numbers to make the margins look good.
There was also, he could admit, a certain base pleasure he got from consolidating and organizing their entire inventory so that it absolutely sang. It was a monthly cleaning party, and New Year’s Day was a special instance because it meant no one was around to mess up his perfect system.
So there he was, on his hands and knees, ass in the air and half of dry storage spread out on the tables when the new sales rep from Beacon Fine Foods came in.
“Uhhhh…hello?”
Clover startled, banging his head on the underside of the metal table, from where he’d been retrieving a half-full case of almond flour from a neglected corner of the shelf. He scrambled back, sitting unceremoniously on the floor and holding the back of his head. Not the most sanitary place to rest, but it wasn’t like he’d be preparing any food today. Just measuring it. If he didn’t have brain damage.
When he looked up, there was a gods-honest gorgeous man looking down at him. He had pale skin and deep red eyes, with dark gray-streaked hair that looked so soft it begged to be touched. Or contained with a proper hairnet.
“Hi.”
Smooth one, Chef.
“Uh,” he said. “I mean, can I help you?”
“Sorry if I scared you,” the man said, rubbing the back of his head. A faint blush colored his cheeks. It was adorable. “The back door was open. I knocked?”
Huh, he thought he’d heard some kind of commotion. But that was…several minutes ago. Clover had gone right back to his mental happy place when there was no follow-up. How long had this guy been standing there?
“I don’t suppose you saw the doorbell,” Clover said, with a grin.
The man flushed even redder. “Was there one?”
“There still is,” Clover said. Just like he was still on the floor. “We’re closed for the holiday, sorry.”
“Holiday?”
Clover frowned. “New Year’s?”
The man blinked. Apparently, Clover wasn’t the only one who skipped the parties last night. Elm could suck on that. See, he wasn’t lame.
“Oh, uh…guess I didn’t notice that either,” the man said. “So…I’m guessing you don’t want to make an order, then? I could come back tomorrow?”
Clover’s eyes finally took in the whole package…and it was a very nice package. The man was dressed casually, but with style. He wore black slacks and boots, along with a fitted gray button-down shirt and a vest with decorative stitching. Enough buttons were open to display the pale column of his throat, and the peek of a white undershirt. The clothes were well-tailored, and the man had a lanky, relaxed posture. He was stunning, and here Clover was sitting on the floor in a tank top and checks, with flour in his hair.
As lovely as that all was, the important detail was the tablet he was holding. The one with the sticker of the Beacon logo on the back.
“Oh!” Clover said. “You’re from Beacon! Ozpin told me they had a new rep coming.”
He scrambled up, brushing himself off before sticking out his hand. “I’m Clover, the bakery manager.”
The man took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Qrow.”
Their hands clasped for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, eyes locked. Qrow’s skin was warm, his hand faintly calloused. Strange, for a sales rep.
“Nice to meet you, Qrow,” he said, grinning. “You’re new?”
“Heh, is it that obvious?” Qrow said, sheepishly. “I’m not really what you’d call a sales type.”
Qrow was some kind of type, and it was Clover’s.
“I think you’re great,” he blurted out.
Oh gods, he was still holding Qrow’s hand. He released the other man, a flush creeping up his own neck. Qrow studied his tablet intently, breaking the eye contact.
“Um, I can put together an order,” Clover said, with a nervous laugh. “If you’re okay with hanging out for a minute?”
Qrow shrugged. “Might as well. I’m guessing you’re not the only joint closed today.”
“Probably, though if my boss had his way we’d be open year-round,” Clover said, heading toward the front of house. “Come on in. Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? I can make you an espresso?”
Sure, Chef, just throw everything you can at the guy. He might as well have stripped down and tucked a sprig of mint behind his ear as garnish.
Qrow chuckled, a little lopsided smile settling onto his mouth. “Didn’t know I was gonna get the full-service treatment.”
Clover spread his arms out. “Can you blame a guy for trying to get a discount?” he said with a wink.
“Ah, I see how it is. Spend a few cents on drinks, make it back ten times over in food cost.”
“Gotta keep us in chocolate and vanilla beans somehow,” he said.
Qrow smirked. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Hot Cakes, but I’m not that easy.”
This guy knew his shit; Clover was impressed. The last sales rep kept trying to foist weird European fruit compounds on him. He didn’t need that kind of voice whispering in his boss’s ear. Gods, James would get obsessed with some miracle product or another every few months, convinced it would solve all their problems. More than once he’d had to talk the man down from abandoning a perfectly good fresh and local ingredient for something fancy and expensive.
“A man can dream,” he said. “What’ll it be? Hell, if it wasn’t inventory day I’d be making you breakfast.”
Oh, he wanted to make Qrow breakfast, all right. Preferably after they’d just spent all night…
“Uh, just regular coffee’s fine,” Qrow said, coughing into his elbow.
Fair enough. Winter would yell at him for using the espresso machine, anyway. No matter how thoroughly he cleaned it, she always seemed to know.
Clover led Qrow out into the front, pouring him a cup from the carafe behind the counter. Ambitiously, he’d made a whole pot; inventory required a lot of coffee. Maybe if Qrow drank a little of it, he wouldn’t be up all night with the jitters.
“Cream and sugar?”
“If you’ve got it,” Qrow said, as if they weren’t standing in a bakery. He had the air of a man who didn’t like to ask for such things but also clearly diluted his coffee until it could legally be classified as ice cream base.
“Of course, it’s no problem,” he said, squatting down to raid the lowboy fridge below the coffee station. “Half and half, whole, skim, soy, almond or oat?”
He looked up at Qrow. His position put his face at approximately crotch height, though the door of the lowboy kept both of their virtues intact.
“Half and half,” Qrow said.
Nice. Clover had nothing against people who couldn’t or chose not to digest dairy. He simply could not date them. Their lives were too different. He wondered how Qrow felt about cheese.
He handed Qrow the carafe, then pointed over to the self-serve coffee station. “Sugar’s there. I think we have agave, too, or I have honey in the kitchen.”
Clover never bothered. He usually just took milk or cream in his coffee, if only because it was usually accompanying some sort of cake. He liked the bitter notes playing alongside the sweet. In his experience, people who sweetened their coffee tended to treat it like a whole meal.
Sure enough, Qrow put a healthy amount of sugar into his coffee, along with the cream. Maybe Clover would have to make that breakfast some time, anyway.
He gestured for Qrow to follow him into the office. Mind turned to business, he plopped down at his computer and pulled up their usual order list. Qrow settled into Winter’s chair, idly spinning around as he sipped his coffee. With most of the inventory fresh in his mind, he set to adjusting their order for the week.
“So! New year, new job?” he said, making a couple notes on their order. They were still flush with pistachio paste after Harriet’s…initiative, last month. No need for that.
“Yeah, first week.” Qrow said. “Oz is…a friend. I still don’t know what he was thinking, hiring me.”
It must have been a touchy subject, because Qrow clammed right up.
Clover spun around in his chair, tilting his head at the other man. “Well, I’m glad to have you. We order a lot, so I’m sure this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Qrow raised his coffee, with a huff of laughter. “Sure, Hot Cakes. Once upon a time, I’d have drank to that.”
Clover frowned. “You shouldn’t do that, you know.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I gave that up,” Qrow said, waving his other hand.
“I meant,” Clover said, one eyebrow raised, “Put yourself down. It’s your first week on the job, Qrow. You don’t even know what you’re capable of, yet.”
Plus…well. He didn’t want to be condescending, but how hard could it be, taking a few orders? It was nowhere near the pain of perfecting a French macaron, that was for sure. But that wasn’t entirely fair. There were clients like Clover, who knew exactly what they wanted and the exact amount they were willing to pay. And then there was everyone else.
Clover hit print on his order. He handed the sheet of paper to Qrow, who regarded it with raised eyebrows.
“You really do order a lot.”
“We do a lot of volume,” Clover said. Frankly, this was low. It was January. “Looks like you just made your first big sale. I’ll see you next week?”
“I mean…” Qrow ducked his head. “You could just call it in. I only came by to introduce myself.”
“But if I called it in, how would you get your breakfast?” Clover asked, fluttering his eyelashes.
“Breakfast.”
“Next week?” he asked.
“Are you…asking me out?”
“No,” Clover said, “I’m asking you in. To my kitchen. If you want to. And only if you want to. That order is standard, Qrow, it doesn’t change a lot from week to week.”
Qrow was staring at the order form as if it held answers. Clover gave him a little smile.
“If you don’t come by, I’ll call it in. No pressure,” he said. “But if you do…”
Clover winked at him. “…I’ll try to have a little something sweet for you.”