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“Okay, cappuccino machine- done. Now on to you, mislabeled sticky jars.” Greg has been tasked with locking up the café tonight, and he never really minds doing it by himself. It usually gives him time to think or focus on the things he has to check off and not worry about how his life is going. He keeps believing his luck will change, he has always been optimistic to a fault. But some days he reaches his capacity and finds himself second-guessing everything about what he does. After a tiring day, all he wants is to go home, order food and escape the outside world in his room.
Just as he is about to finish cleaning the counters, he hears the door open. He looks at the clock. 9:08. Shit, he shouldn’t have gotten lost in thoughts and lock up first.
“I know you are closed, but I’ll give you 20 pounds if you take my order,” the guy barging in says. He looks around Greg’s age, maybe younger. He is dressed in a suit that hangs a bit big in his lanky frame, and it ages him a little. He is completely drenched from the rain and his auburn hair is curling up. He overall looks miserable.
Well, it’s been a long day for Greg too. He is sure he doesn’t look that great himself either. Actually, the guy looks pretty fine. More than fine, if you ask Greg. Especially with his black tie and first buttons undone. “Not a moment to focus on stuff like that, Lestrade”, he stops himself.
“I’m sorry mate, but that won’t cut it. I really can’t stay open.”
The guy stays by the door, dripping water onto the floor that Greg knows he has to mop again. He seems to realize this and moves to the side, looking apologetical.
“Listen,” Greg knows he is going to regret it, but he guesses his warm bed and greasy good can wait a bit more. “I’m not supposed to do this, so don’t order anything complicated, alright?”
The guy still looks a little desperate but exhales in relief.
“Yes, of course, thank you.” His gaze is a little lost, and Greg recognizes the look. Is the telltale of a rough day.
He walks forward. “Coffee with a splash of cream, please.”
Greg sets to make the order, glancing at the cappuccino machine he’ll have to clean again. The tall man sits on a table near the counter. His back is tense and he bounces his leg rapidly. Greg realizes he has already closed the cash register as well.
“You’re usually a tea guy, right?” Greg asks. He has seen the man around a couple of times, but never ordering coffee. Greg’s mornings are spent training, so he’s only run into him on the seldom occasions when he covered for one of his coworkers on the early shift. He is sure the guy has never noticed him, though.
“It’s a coffee kind of day,” the redhead says, closing his eyes and sighing.
“I hear you on that,” Greg nods. Just for the hell of it, he pulls out another cup for himself and opens the fridge. “It’s a brownie kind of day, too.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he smiles slightly. “I really shouldn’t, but that’s an offer I’m going to take you up on.”
“It’s the last brownie, and I need the sugar rush if I’m going to stay awake on the tube,” Greg says, because he can’t help the friendly banter. “I’m going to fight you for it.”
The guy has a 20-pound note in his hand when Greg places the drink on the table.
“Put that away, will ya?” Greg says, taking a chair. He never does this, but he is tired and he wants to drink something warm before going out in the cold. He has now officially locked up and his manager can’t yell at him for sitting opposite a customer. And it’s a 3-pound coffee, it won’t make a dent on his budget to cover for it. Well, maybe it will, but he can’t back off his offer now.
“I insist,” the guy says, and even though he sounds like he’s been through hell, Greg delights himself in the way he speaks.
“Put it towards the tip jar next time you stop by,” Greg tells him. “It’s Greg, by the way,” he says, because it seems weird sitting there in silence, Greg with his legs stretched towards the side, the guy leaning back on his chair, staring ahead to some point above Greg’s shoulder.
“Mycroft,” he says, extending a long hand. Greg shakes it. Despite holding the coffee, it’s still cold from the weather.
“I never took your order, then.” Mycroft looks puzzled at Greg. “I would have remembered the name if I did,” he explains.
“Oh,” Mycroft says shortly. It sounds like it isn’t the first time he has heard a comment like that and Greg curses his stupid mouth.
“I like it,” he says, sipping his coffee. It tastes pretty strong - he is going to pay for that tonight, there is a reason he rarely has caffeine on the last hours of his shift.
“So, shitty day?” he asks Mycroft.
“You have no idea.” Greg has a feeling he probably doesn’t. Mycroft dresses like the hot-shot men he sees walking by the shop every day, but that would never come inside. Even now, as he is cradling his cup for warmth, there is an air of distinction and refinement to him that sets him apart. Greg suddenly feels self-conscious about his dirty apron and the old grey t-shit poking from beneath it. Mycroft’s leather shoes are splashed from the rain, and Greg glances down at his own battered combat boots.
Mycroft looks like he works in a place that would serve decent coffee. A law firm or a stock trading office. Greg feels cheeky all of the sudden. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but he sets it as his goal to make the cute ginger boy change his mood.
“I bet you it can’t be worse than mine,” he smirks.
“Oh, I assure you it was a catastrophe of monumental proportions,” Mycroft says.
“Okay,” Greg moves in his seat, and now their legs bump a little under the table. “I bet you it can’t be worse.”
“Really?” He smiles, and Greg thinks the looks like the Cheshire Cat, or some sort of feline closing in on a mouse. Suddenly the thrills he feels are not connected with caffeine jitters. “And what do we bet?” Mycroft asks.
“The brownie, obviously.” Greg glances at the chocolate square on a napkin between them. But then he gets an idea. “If I win,” Greg says, “next time you come back here you look for me and you wait for me- you don’t look like a particularly patient guy, Mycroft, so I’m guessing it’s going to be hard for you.”
He rolls his eyes slightly and Greg is fascinated.
“Just that? You get exclusivity over my orders?”
Greg shrugs.
“And if you lose?” Mycroft asks.
“If I lose, I accept the 20 pounds you have not yet put away and are planning on insisting I take either way.”
Mycroft looks away, the corner of his lips twisting in a smile. Greg counts it as a small victory.
“You are going to put it straight into the tip jar for your coworkers,” Mycroft says.
“Oh, he is cute and clever, gents!” Greg laughs. Mycroft’s eyes widen a bit and Greg wonders if maybe he stepped over the line a little. He could never help seeing a posh guy and kicking up the flirting.
Mycroft is blushing but doesn’t seem to mind it.
“Okay, so this morning my heater broke down. Nice, solid way to start a November morning, a cold shower,” Greg begins. Mycroft has lost the coat and is folding it as he looks at Greg with attention. His white button-up is even more drenched, and Greg feels his mouth go suddenly very dry. “Then I, uhh, well, I had to have breakfast, but the complete ass of my roommate cleared out all the tea and never bothered to buy more-“
“- I guess that’s when working at a coffee shop comes in handy, right?” Mycroft asks.
“I don’t do morning shifts,” Greg says. Mycroft gives him a sly smile and nods.
“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Greg laughs.
“Just confirming a theory, it’s all,” Mycroft says. “Carry on.”
“Right.” Greg is not convinced but wants to keep on with his story. Then he realizes he can’t really tell a stranger he is training at the Police Academy, especially not a perceptive one like this. A couple of people know, but not many. His roommate, two coworkers, and his sister. He still doesn’t have the guts to tell his mom he is going after the same job that killed his dad. He thinks in a few months when his training is done he might quit his day job and start a career at the force but the idea hasn’t settled in yet. Right now he doesn’t want to think about the future a lot, and the uncertainty it holds.
That deduces points, though. He can’t complain to Mycroft about the officer who pushed him to train an extra hour because he had been late, how sore his muscles feel, or how shitty it had been running into his ex while leaving the place, the same guy who had kept stringing him along for months, only meeting him in hidden spots, like some dirty secret.
Mycroft still looks at him with focus, and Greg takes a big gulp of coffee that burns his tongue. He flinches and Mycroft furrows his brow slightly.
“Uhm, yeah, I had to do some running in the rain this morning,” he lies, “and then come here and listen to four hours of debate about who is the worst contestant on Love Island, or something. Had not one, not two, but four customers complain that we are either too slow, too rude or too chatty,” he continues. It’s everyday things, nothing in particular, but it all adds up and Greg realizes how freeing it is to bitch about it to someone, to say the words out loud rather than solely in his mind as he does press benches. “My sister wants to talk about selling my folks’ house and that will only make this headache worse.”
Mycroft stays in silence, waiting to see if Greg wants to say more. No-one really waits for him to finish talking, he is used to being cut off or looked over. He is not the biggest guy training, he is not the best connected one, and now that he’s lost the earring and graffiti paint he is not really in with his usual crowd either. The only thing waiting for him at home is a roommate who spends his days getting high on the couch and playing music so loudly in the nights that when the neighbors don’t complain, Greg does.
He feels lonely and because of that he doesn’t really mind being examined so closely by Mycroft. He has vented to him and unloaded a lot of his troubles, and they probably won’t see each other ever again, save for crossing paths at the café. Greg still believes he is not the type of guy that will come here regularly, so it feels safe to talk to him.
“My turn, I guess,” Mycroft smiles. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms - “and there is that white damp shirt again, dammit”, Greg thinks- tilts his head and straightens his back. It’s a power stance if Greg has ever seen one.
“You think you can top that?” Greg asks, biting his lip. He is delighted in seeing a smirk on Mycroft’s face. At least they understand each other.
“I can certainly try,” he says. “You went chronologically, but I’ll give you the run-down of my favorite highlights of the day.”
He brings his hand to his face and absentmindedly bites on one of his nails, the rest of his fingers are suspended in a graceful position over his mouth. Greg is glad he has a reason to stare at his lips.
“I had no issues with my heater this morning, and breakfast was satisfactory, though I will admit t sometimes I miss the camaraderie of sharing a room in university.”
“First time living on your own, then?” Greg asks
“Yes, and if you tell anyone I miss the companion of hearing someone through the walls, I will deny this conversation ever happened.”
Greg laughs. “Fair enough”
“I don’t mind my time alone. I usually cherish it, take the opportunity to watch a movie and not be bothered.” Mycroft goes on, his finger tapping at his lips.
“Catching up on the latest superhero film?” Greg teases because he knows there is no way Mycroft spends his free time binging Marvel movies.
“I prefer the classics,” Mycroft smiles.
“Dully noted then, Rick Blaine,” he grins. “Sorry, go on.”
“Well, the shock is going from that to having to manage people at work. Not a lot, but their levels of comprehension are just…” He closes his eyes like the memory frustrates him all over again. “Reviewing a matter of mild concern took twice as much as it should only because someone of my senior took offense at me pointing out the flaws in his system.”
Greg nods sympathetically, having had his share of butting heads with superior officers.
“Then, of course, my mother decided this was a great moment to remind me of all the social obligations I have to fulfill now that I’m the younger member of the family located in London. I guess it’s for the best that my brother is still deciding on whether he is going to attend university or not. Suspect the mingling and forced social smiles shall remain under my responsibility still even if he is around.”
“Not his kind of scene?” Greg asks “If he is more into the punk, underground bar thing I might have some pointers for him.”
“I believe that will be for the worse.” Mycroft smiles sadly and raises his brows.
“So that was what did it, huh?” Greg asks.
“What?”
“Your mother calling. Those kinds of talks can be rough, the type to send you scouting for coffee.”
“Oh,” Mycroft says, “no, that was not it. I’ve been dealing with my mother and her expectations of me for 26 years now.”
“Then what was the kicker?” Greg asks. It feels weird to be prying into a stranger’s life like that, but it makes Mycroft even more intriguing to him. “Remember, there is a very good brownie on the line.”
“I had to attend a function this afternoon. Lots of people, lots of noise. I couldn’t handle being around one more person.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me,” Greg says.
“This is different.”
“Why?”
Mycroft blinks and looks down at the table. He fidgets with the wooden stirrer and Greg realizes he has long, beautiful fingers.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, “you don’t know me, you are not my family or my superiors, or anyone expecting a lot from me.”
He swallows and tries to arrange his shirt, which now is mainly wet around his tie. He leans in to take the brownie, and Greg puts his hand above his.
“Whoah, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m claiming my brownie,” Mycroft says. Neither one of them has moved their hands. “It’s been a long, tedious day and I clearly won the bet.”
Greg can see he is more relaxed, but there is still a tone of defeat to his words.
“I don’t know,” Greg says. “Your mom was a pain, but that’s just mother for you. Your boss was threatened by you undermining him with your suggestion, but I’m guessing being much clever than everyone around you, you’re used to this kind of situations. I have to fix the coffee pots here in a certain order for no rhyme or reason, just ‘cause.” He laughs a little. “Oh, you’d have a field day trying to lead this place.”
It’s so easy to talk to him, like they’ve known each other for far more than half an hour.
“And I’m sure at least there was good food at the event, I’m running on this afternoon’s ramen and nothing much,” he adds.
“I take it the Metropolitan Police doesn’t cater to the best meals?” Mycroft smiles.
“I’m not even going to ask how you figured that out,” Greg smirks. “But, cards on the table then, I think the coffee at Whitehall is pretty neat for what I hear. Don’t see why you had to come here, except-“ he cuts Mycroft off before he can reply, “except you needed to have a cup somewhere else, take a breather and commiserate.”
Mycroft is holding to every word he is saying and Greg feels electricity coursing through his fingers, making him move his hand from Mycroft’s.
“Guess what?” He asks, his voice a little hoarse. “You did that. I get the brownie.”
Mycroft leans forwards, puts his elbow on the table and his face on his hand. He keeps staring at Greg, but differently now. He is not analyzing him anymore, but fully taking him in. It feels even more intimidating.
“Tell you what,” Greg says, and he breaks the brownie in half, handing him a piece. “It was always easy like that. Now we both win.”
They eat in silence for a while. Greg sees that it has stopped raining outside.
“So, next time I come here I have to look for you, wait for you to take my order and what?” Mycroft asks, apparently conceding defeat.
“And nothing. I get to talk to you, you can complain about your boss, share what’s going on with your family if you want. I can openly diss my officer and my idiot roommate.”
Mycroft squints his eyes.
“I get to see you and talk to you,” Greg says. “I win.”
Mycroft’s cheeks go a little pink and he coughs.
“I think we both do, Gregory.”
Greg smirks. “I can get used to that.”
Mycroft seems to recompose himself as he finishes his coffee shortly after that.
“You won’t let me pay for this then?” He asks as he grabs his coat and umbrella.
“Nope. A bet is a bet, Mycroft.”
Mycroft smiles and rolls his eyes, and God, he is adorable. Greg realizes he desperately doesn’t want to see him go.
“Are you sure you don’t want to dry down?” he offers.
“I think catching a cold is inevitable now, thank you.”
Greg doesn’t get up, watches Mycroft get ready to leave and rejoices in seeing his shoulders are not as tense as the moment he walked in.
Mycroft hesitates by the door and turns around, and Greg tries to wipe the dopey grin he knows he has on his face.
“I’m trying to think of an alternative to coffee or tea, since I’m sure you’re tired of it,” he says. He shifts a little in his place. “Can I buy you a brownie for our next talk?”
Greg doesn’t care if he looks like an infatuated idiot now. “A whole brownie, just for plain old me?” he says. “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Mycroft laughs and nods, and Greg thinks “Job well done."
“Yes, something like that,” Mycroft says. “Goodbye, Greg.”
Greg takes 30 minutes to clean the place again and lock up, and as he lights a cigarette outside in the cold, he realizes his luck just might be changing after all.