Chapter Text
The first time he set foot in the deli he brought the storm in with him, mostly in his brow but in other ways too.
It was hard to enjoy a rainy day in Brooklyn. The wet coaxed out all those unpleasant scents from the streets. Piss in the alleyways. The potent, musty scent of the lightly flooded subway passages. God forbid one should misstep lest they be gifted with a shoe full of streetwater then left to wonder what exactly that grit is between their toes. Best case scenario: cigarette ash and brake dust.
The bell that had hung above the door since you were a kid tinkled best as it could.
His boots were black and the leather, thick. No doubt impervious to something so trivial as a puddle. You noted this as you watched him over your shoulder. He kicked those boots roughly against the floor mat in the entrance. He looked as suspicious as he was suspiciously attractive. A detail you would set aside for now as you powered down the meat slicer and brushed the peppery gore of pastrami brisket off of your apron. The lunch rush was long over but everyone was still at work. This guy was an odd straggler.
“Afternoon,” you said. A rushed greeting. No smile but a subtle warmth. The kind of greeting that’d be familiar if you were from the neighborhood.
He gave you a nod of acknowledgement, glancing at you briefly before raking his eyes over the minimal menu marquee listing above you.
He was from the neighborhood.
“Take your time.”
You watched him from the register, discarding your plastic gloves as you anticipated his order.
He had a strange bearing. Eyes consuming everything critically, jaw tensed, huge crossed arms - not with confidence but restraint.
He reminded you of the German Shepherd your cousin upstate had growing up. The whale-eyed sweetheart that was content to fetch a ball now and then and keep to herself until that day you startled her chasing a firefly past her dogloo and she took a decent bite out of your ankle. Lucky your Keds came through and you only bled a little.
Raleigh, that was her name. Never played with you again after that. You would throw her ball but she would just turn her back to you, drop to lie, and sigh with sagging ears.
“How’s the pastrami?”
When you snapped back to the present, he was waiting for your reply with a softened expression. You almost rolled your eyes.
“The best.”
Your tone brooked no argument. It was simply a fact. This deli had not been standing on this very street corner for almost a century just by sheer luck. Although, every day it seemed like the profit margins thinned.
“Nice to see some things never change,” he said. Was this relief, you detected? Your expression must have appeared as inquisitive as your thoughts because he decided to elaborate.
“Used to come here all the time for that sandwich.”
“Oh yeah?” You cocked your head and leaned against the counter.
“At least once a week when I got my first summer job,” he said, taking in the many temptations beneath the glass. Chicken salad, potato knishes, chilled vegetables tossed in seasoned vinegar and oil.
“Gotta imagine my cholesterol still hasn’t recovered,” he murmured
You frowned, appraising him once again. Drab blue eyes with dark circles beneath them, the corners of his mouth downturned. If he sheared the rugged, stubbly beard, he would have a boyish face - an avoidance of such an impression being the likely reason for said stubbly beard’s existence, if you had to guess. Or maybe he just knew it suited him.
“I don’t recognize you,” you decided, pushing back just for the hell of it.
He looked up from the case, lips parted. He waved you off.
“Was a long time ago.”
“Been working here since I was thirteen. Don’t tend to forget my regulars.”
He could take a little shit. He was from the neighborhood.
“I guess I missed you,” he said, shoving his gloved hands into the pockets of his black wool coat and shrugging, giving you his impression of an easy smile.
“Uh huh.”
“And I’ve been out of town for awhile, besides.”
“But you’re back?”
“It looks that way.”
“So that’ll be a pastrami sandwich then?”
His lips parted and his apprehensive eyebrows raised.
“I- uh, yeah.”
With a self-satisfied smile you rang him up.
“Fifteen dollars.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head, and exhaled a chuckle.
“ Some things never change,” he said, procuring cash from his wallet. He seemed in good humor else you would have been happy to educate him on just how expensive it is these days to maintain a business in Brooklyn (God only knows how outrageous disaster insurance was since that fuck-you sized alien portal opened in the sky years ago) and that your prices were very fair considering just how high you piled the pastrami on that rye.
“Inflation’s a bitch,” you said, opening the till. The deli may have been kosher but you certainly weren’t and neither was your mouth. You offered him his ones.
“Keep it.”
“Thanks. What’s your name anyway?”
He narrowed his eyes at your question.
“I like to know my regulars by name.”
“Do you now?”
You looked him up and down and nodded.
“You’ll be back.”
Alright, sure, yes, you were letting a bit of blood in the water. No harm, right? He was very pretty and you were just doing your job. Being an effective salesperson.
He looked pressed and threw an answer out just as he verged on that awkward precipice of taking-too-long-to-answer-such-a-basic-question.
“Bucky,” he said, and scratched the back of his head, “they called me Bucky around here. Ages ago.”
Pleased, you gestured to the table in the window. The watery gray daylight singled it out. The red gingham tablecloth was neat and uncrimped atop it and the salt and pepper shakers were freshly refilled.
“Have a seat. It’ll be out in a jiffy.”
He thanked you and sat down. Meanwhile you washed and gloved your hands and let your mind wander while you let your muscle memory take over. The recipe was the same as the day the deli opened.
Two slices of fresh, untoasted rye bread.
Was he serious with that name? Bucky is what a white-hat cowboy hero would name his trusty horse. Bucky is the likely name of a high school football mascot. Bucky the Beaver. Bucky the Bulldog.
Bucky...oddly seemed to you to be a very good name for a male stripper. Which brought you to your next thought. His physique. Wow. He was well put together to say the least but he was odd, especially in your deli. He certainly cut an interesting figure, looking all around the establishment - his apparent old stomping grounds - all clad in black mysteriousness at the cheery little table. You had to hide a snicker as you watched him try and right the small vase with a plastic daisy in it which he had knocked over by accident.
Mustard on both slices.
You had worked behind the counter long enough to develop a powerful perception and a curiosity to rival it. He said he was a regular, so why didn’t you remember him? Now that rankled. But he did seem familiar all the same. You could not put your finger on how. Maybe you were losing your touch.
Fourteen ounces of pastrami brisket, streaked with glorious bone-white marbling, stacked - not folded.
And - not that you cared or anything - but you kind of wished that you weren’t wearing your uniform ballcap or, at least, that your apron wasn’t so soiled by meat essence . It was not a cute look and you would want to avoid anyone who disagreed with that notion.
A civilized amount of sauerkraut, neither exploding out of the sides of the sandwich nor turning the bread into a soggy mess.
You stole another look at him, he was watching the door, the people passing by, swiping his bottom lip with his thumb.
You itched with terrible curiosity.
Your job description, however, did not include interrogation. You speared the sandwich with a toothpick and tucked a dill pickle beside it. True love. It was perfect from every angle as you turned the plate around. Something you aspired to with every order.
Then, you had a sudden whim. Watching him carefully, you snuck over to the case and slid it open, retrieving a slice of chocolate babka. The swirling layers of chocolate and dough were especially designed to seduce the sweet tooth. His good sportsmanship deserved a reward.
The plate touched down on the tablecloth with a soft thump. He looked up in surprise, his attention shifting from the wet city streets.
“Welcome back, Bucky.”
He made a sound of surprise and graciously thanked you for the freebie. You did not linger. No one likes to be watched while they eat which is precisely why you did it very sneakily from behind the counter while pretending to adjust the display of chopped liver.
He stared his sandwich down. You were worried he might toast the bread with such a focussed gaze. You imagined he must be indulging in some deep reminiscence. Or maybe it was just elevator music in that head of his. It could be like that with the handsome ones sometimes.
Then, like an absolute maniac, he picked his sandwich up without removing his leather gloves. Boy, did you have questions now. But you could see by his face - by the smallest fluttering of his eyelids and the contented sigh that he would be back.
And you are nothing if not patient.