Archive of Our Own

There were many benefits, he supposed, to the internet provider he had chosen when finally bothering to have an internet connection installed in his home.

It was fast, for one, and rarely had outages. It allowed him to work from home on days when he was feeling particularly misanthropic, or days when his leg was giving him more trouble than usual. And, when his sister and brother-in-law were out of the country, it allowed him to keep constant contact, usually via video, should he get particularly concerned over their health. 

Perhaps least important of these benefits, though one he used perhaps too often, was the fact his internet provider got him discounts on streaming services, and allowed him to simply sit on his couch and stream some asinine television program or movie when he was tired of working on any given day.

However, as with any other thing, it had its downsides, as well.

It kept him home far too often, for one, working in his home office or entertaining himself with his streaming services when he should have been at the office running things properly. For two, on the rare occasion it slowed down or had an outage, the issue lasted a considerable amount of time, as the provider did not believe in so-called ‘quick fixes’.

When he’d called them this morning because his internet had already been out since before he went to bed the night before, they’d informed him it may well be out for the rest of the week, as they’d received multiple complaints and wanted to take their time figuring out what had gone wrong and fixing it so that it, hopefully, would not happen again.

By the time he’d gotten someone there to check on his router, he was late getting into the office.

He’d need to go in regardless, of course, because with no internet at home he didn’t have the luxury of not going to the office, but he saw no point in hurrying.

He decided he’d walk to work, and, seeing the little coffee shop down the street at a red light, he decided he may as well get a coffee. He’d been meaning to stop in, one of these days, just to see what all the fuss was about ― today was as good a day as any to finally get around to it.

He entered while checking his phone. The internet company, telling him it may be closer to two weeks before it was fixed if they didn’t have it resolved by tomorrow. He frowned.

“Hi there, what can I get started for you?” Chirped the bubbly-sounding Irish brogue of the barista as he stepped up to the counter.

He flicked a single glance at the menu above the barista’s head.

Hm.

“Large dark roast,” He grunted, after flicking his eyes back down to his phone to tap out a reply, “No sugar or creamer.”

There was a soft sound, like a muffled laugh, but he ignored it.

“Okay,” Chirped the barista, after a few beeping sounds, “That’ll be $6.25.”

He grunted, digging out his credit card and passing it to him without looking up. $6.25 at a small shop off the main roads wasn’t bad ― the only other small shop he’d been to in the last couple of years had charged nearly that much for a small coffee.

He glanced up as the barista walked away, presumably to get his drink, and eyed the little screen asking him if he wanted to tip. The regular options displayed themselves ― 5%, 10%, or 15%, with the added bonus of “Choose your own”.

Hm.

This place was visibly busy today, but the barista had been friendly anyway, and despite his irritation over the internet situation at home, he was in a good enough mood himself.

He tapped “choose your own” and typed $10.00.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the money to spare.

And, ultimately, a total of less than $20 during a clear morning rush at a small mom-and-pop type coffee shop was great.

He plucked his card back up from the surface of the counter, pocketing it, and then accepted his drink from the barista.

He took a small sip as he stepped back out onto the street, and continued his walk to work.

He decided, ultimiately, that he liked the place. A lot.

The coffee was good, and even though it had been busy when he went in the service was fast and friendly, without too much attempt at conversation. That worked just fine for him!

So he went back in on Thursday, purposely late so that he could see if it was always that busy around 11AM, and found the experience much the same as the first time.

He spent the rest of the week and the weekend in his office, for lack of anything better to do at home.

The internet issue, as it turned out, was an overarching, system-wide issue, so he wouldn’t have internet for at least another four days come Monday.

On the following Tuesday, he heaved a sigh, grabbed his laptop, and decided he may as well see if he could manage to get some work done while he was at the cafe. They had wifi there, and the password was available pretty much everywhere in the store, so it wasn’t as if he’d have a hard time getting onto the internet.

It was far preferable to sitting in his office for the nth day in a row.

He ordered at the same time as he had the last two times, sat down at a table, and worked until about 12:30 or so, when he realized he’d run out of coffee, and sort of hesitantly went up to order another.

On Thursday, he repeated that.

And although his internet had been fixed at home by the following Tuesday, he decided there couldn’t be any harm in heading in again. He certainly walked away each time feeling far better than he had when he walked in, so why not? Why not make a habit of it?

Wilford kept telling him he needed to get out of the house more, so he replaced two of the days he would normally work at home with working at a table in the shop.

He made a habit of it, and he really, truly, didn’t miss the nearly $80 he spent at the shop every week between his drinks and the tips he left for Jack, the cheery Irish barista who always seemed to be on the clock when he came in.

Now, of course, after a few months, some things did change ― as much as he might like for things to exist in a sort of static state, where things didn’t change unless he changed them himself, there were always going to be unexpected variables. Some weeks, he didn’t go into work at all because of his leg, some weeks he went in even on the days he would otherwise only complete work from the comfort of the Roasted Bean.

Some weeks, like this one, he was on his way to work to solve a last minute issue at work, and he was exhausted, and really, really needed a coffee.

So, some weeks, his routine had to be a little flexible.

He walked into the Roasted Bean at around nine in the morning on that fine Saturday, after his usual large coffee, and was admittedly a little surprised to see his usual Irish barista at the counter. Past the customer ahead of him, he could see the barista ― Jack, his nametag said ― grimace down at the register as the door swung shut behind him.

Contrary to his previously reliably good mood and bubbly exterior, he seemed exhausted and annoyed today.

It couldn’t have to do with the business, Damien decided, because the other barista ― a long-haired, pale person with dark circles and some rather theatrical-looking makeup ― didn’t seem at all bothered by the amount of customers… And, in his experience, Jack seemed to thrive when the place was overly busy, and was no less happy during the quieter hours of operation.

When he got to the counter, Jack didn’t look up.

He chirped his usual greeting, a greeting Damien hadn’t actually been on the receiving end of in a few months at this point.

Poor thing.

He hummed, admittedly a little amused to find they were both exhausted today, and said, “You must be very tired.”

Jack’s head snapped up, wide blue eyes blinking owlishly. He looked him up and down for a moment, seemingly taken aback if the way his mouth dropped slightly open was anything to go by, and then, mouth snapping shut, flushed deeply from his cheeks all the way to the neckline of his shirt.

“Oh,” Jack said, hoarse and toneless, “Oh. Shit, yeah, sorry.” He shook himself, straightening up a little, “Hang on, let me get… Let me get that for you.”

He nodded his agreement, and couldn’t help smiling a little.

Again, poor thing, truly.

In a brief moment that displayed this was, in fact, the same terribly efficient and friendly barista that he usually interacted with, it didn’t take long for Jack to prepare his coffee, hand it off as usual, and then process his payment and immediately chirp out a thanks as Damien turned his attention to the tip screen.

He wasn’t sure why the poor man was in such bad shape today, but he also didn’t particularly care to know the exacts of it. The simple facts of the matter were that Jack was visibly exhausted, and Damien’s business had been doing wonderfully the last few months, and Damien felt badly for Jack considering how ragged he looked.

Instead of his usual $10 tip, he decided he’d be perhaps overly generous today.

He tapped “choose your own” and typed $50.00 into the space provided.

He wouldn’t miss the money.

He nodded his goodbye to Jack, and he headed for the door.

Before he got there, he heard a low wolf-whistle, and then an unfamiliar voice (probably the other barista) saying, “Damn, his ass looks good in jeans, right Jack?”

He couldn’t help a little bit of a splutter as he turned to look and see if he was correct about who had spoken, and if they were serious. It would seem so, given the long-haired barista was grinning over at poor Jack, who was spluttering incoherently as his face once again turned red.

He bit down on the laughter that almost left him, turning quickly away once more and leaving.

Oh, yes.

Jack was going to need that extra $50, if his coworker was going to do that to him all day.

Somewhere along the line, Damien stopped actually getting any work done when he went into the Roasted Bean.

Though he’d be a little embarrassed to admit it, he ended up, after a certain point, just sort of watching Jack work. He didn’t mean to watch, and especially not as closely as he did, but he was certainly watching.

It was interesting, certainly more attention-holding than staring at expense reports and emails all day, to see the way that he moved around his drink station, and how he reacted to his customers. He had a particular way with regulars, and a particular way with new customers. Always, with the only notable exception being that one, early Saturday, had a big smile on his face that somehow managed to reach his eyes as he took people’s orders. Always walked with a sort of bounce in his step.

With regulars, like himself, he noticed that Jack made an effort to have their drink ready before they got to the counter. Usually that meant working on it in tandem with someone else’s order ― his own, when he went for refills, was done between orders, before he ever even made a notion of getting up to come and get it.

He wasn’t sure if that was odd, or if Jack just truly expected him to come to the counter at the exact same time every time and therefore made preparations for that.

And at first, all he did was watch because it was interesting to see the subtle shift in personality that Jack seemed to make for each customer. A little more bubbly for some, a little more quiet for others. He adjusted quick and easy the moment someone stepped up to the counter after his initial greeting ― even though Damien often couldn’t hear what he said, his face and his movements said a lot about the tone he was probably using.

After a couple of months, though, he realized he was watching because Jack was pretty just as much as he was watching because Jack was interesting.

And he noticed, with a touch of amusement, that he spent a whole lot more time actually getting work done in the mornings, because after he went and got his refill he couldn’t help just watching Jack during and after the lunch rush.

When he walked in one morning with intent to do as he normally did and attempt to work while inevitably failing and watching Jack work instead, he was a little surprised to find the Roasted Bean mostly empty aside from a couple of steadfast regulars and the staff. More surprised to see three baristas on duty as opposed to the usual two.

He knew Chase, by now, sort of ― he’d never ordered from him, but he was just as friendly as Jack was, on average, if a little more subdued. He wasn’t here every time that Jack was, but he was one of the more frequent partners.

The other, he’d not met.

They seemed locked in a discussion as he entered, but when all three glanced over and noticed him, he watched Chase give the unknown barista a Look that rivaled one of Celine’s ‘shut up if you know what’s good for you’ looks. What was that about, he wondered?

Plenty of time to think about it, he supposed, as he took his coffee and left his tip, giving Jack a small smile of thanks before heading to his usual table.

Though he’d been a little worried for the unknown barista, whose nametag, as it happened, read ‘Jackie’, given the weight of the glare Chase had given him, over the course of the shift he was relieved to see it seemed to be a one-off. He seemed to get on like a house on fire with Chase and Jack, ultimately. The sounds of them quipping at each other when it was quiet enough to hear properly was a great backdrop to him getting a little bit of work done.

After his refill, as usual, he spent more time watching than working.

The same bill as usual, mostly, except that Chase left just a little while after he got his refill.

Honestly, with as much as he knew about the interpersonal relationships of the staff at this point, he could probably write a fairly convincing drama about the ins and outs of a local coffee shop with a host of tired but friendly baristas.

Certainly more entertaining to think about than any of the things that needed his attention at work.

The next handful of weeks were more busy than usual.

He found himself popping in for coffee on other days, and counted his lucky stars when he happened to pop in during one of Jack’s shifts.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, order from any of the other baristas. It didn’t ultimately make a difference, because he’d tip the same no matter what.

It was just that ordering from Jack, in particular, was part of his routine, and he’d never been very good at straying from his routine.

He got very lucky in that Jack seemed to work for most of the week.

One particular day, Jack insisted he take his receipt, though they normally didn’t bother.

It wasn’t until after he’d gotten halfway down the street that he glanced at it and realized that Jack had scrawled a note on the back.

‘I’m usually at work these days and times if I don’t get called in for extra shifts. -J’

Following that, a handwritten schedule.

He memorized it, and he used it to ensure that if he needed to pop in on a day other than Tuesday or Thursday, Jack would be there.

“Dames, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d gone and gotten a crush on this poor barista.”

Damien rolled his eyes as Wilford, in his usual way, unabashedly scrolled through his credit card history. He seemed amused, truly, by the uptick in visits to the Roasted Bean, and unsurprised by the amounts he spent there, though Damien didn’t doubt he was curious about it.

“How much to they even charge for coffee?” Wilford asked, after a moment, “Surely almost $20 per transaction is a bit much?”

“Large dark roast is $6.25,” He answered, perhaps too readily, “I tip my barista generously.”

A laugh.

“Oh, now I’m really starting to think you do have a crush, despite knowing you better than that.”

“I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort. I would be tipping generously no matter who it was.”

“Yes,” Wilford agreed, “But, you know, I popped by the other day ― this ‘Jack’ you’ve mentioned… He was cute.”

If a flush rose in his cheeks, he ignored it.

“He’s a part of my routine, Wil, nothing more than that.”

A hum, unconvinced and terribly amused. “Oh, do keep telling yourself that, Dames.”

And he intended to ― he would not be party to some silly fiction in which dating the pretty barista at his favorite coffee shop was possible. Best to let those feelings lie and forget about them. Or, failing that, simply ignore them.

Although it was not, necessarily, unlikely that Wilford would make a move if he didn’t, and he knew himself well enough to know he might dislike that very much. But he would not allow himself to be fooled into thinking it was possible. No matter how much he may or may not like Jack, it would ultimately be more likely for Wilford to have some success.

Celine would probably like Jack a great deal, as well, he imagined, which made it all the more likely that it could happen.

What a world.

What a world where his very happily married brother-in-law had more chance with the pretty barista than he did.

When he came in at his usual time on a particular Tuesday some few weeks later, he was startled to find Jack was not there. His usual station was being manned by Chase, instead, and the long-haired one, Marvin, was manning the other register.

… Odd.

In all the months he’d been coming here, he didn’t think Jack had ever missed a day.

He couldn’t help feeling a little lost, but, ultimately, he approached the counter, in Chase’s line.

There was a moment of eye contact, an almost amused smile, and a pointed nod.

By the time he got to the counter, blessedly, he didn’t even have to order. Chase had his coffee ready. Thank goodness he already knew his order ― not as well as Jack did, of course, but he knew, and that smoothed things over considerably.

Still, he couldn’t help wondering where Jack was.

And there was no way in any culture’s hell that he would be asking his coworkers about it.

There was nothing he despised more than that sort of invasion of privacy. He would just have to let the curiosity eat him alive. It was unprofessional and, dare he say, creepy, for him to ask why Jack wasn’t here.

Chase could do the job just as well, if not better.

No reason to cause a fuss.

And, yet, when Jack still wasn’t there on Thursday, he couldn’t help wanting desperately to ask, just so he knew Jack was okay.

Had he quit? Was he sick?

Though he didn’t ask, and Chase certainly didn’t tell, the man seemed consistently amused through their brief interactions.

How obvious was it, Damien wondered, that he was missing his usual barista?

He adjusted as well as he could, and the next week it was still Chase working at Jack’s usual station. He considered tipping extra for making the man deal with his silent fussing, but seeing as Chase continued to seem like he found the whole situation funny, he decided not to.

He tipped the usual amount, and when he glanced up at the counter after taking his seat each time, Chase gave him a blinding grin and a nod.

The following week, he had resigned himself to Chase being his new favorite barista.

He walked in on Tuesday, still feeling a bit off considering the disruption to his usual routine, but ready to make an effort to move past it. It was his usual time, and he was certain that Chase would be at the counter, so he didn’t bother really looking up toward the register until he was nearly there.

When he did, at last, glance up, he was surprised to see Jack in his usual place, with his usual smile.

He felt himself relax as Jack pointedly held up his pre-prepared coffee, and didn’t want to think about why that was.

He took his drink, paid for it, tipped his usual $10.

Paused before he could head off to his usual seat.

There wasn’t anybody in line behind him, so he didn’t feel rushed to leave, and he… Wanted to ask.

“Are you…” He began, careful, soft, “Alright?”

Jack blinked at him, cocking his head and furrowing his brows in confusion.

He felt himself flush as he scrambled to elaborate, “You weren’t here for… A while. I thought you may be sick.”

How much power did this silly little friendly barista have over him, he wondered? He’d not scrambled to explain himself to anyone in years. Not since before Celine’s divorce.

“Oh,” Said Jack, in turn, face immediately turning red as he glanced briefly away, “I was… I was on vacation, actually.”

“Ah.” Damien said.

A very brief, awkward silence.

“Right. Well. I’m… Glad you’re in good health.”

And he swiftly turned to walk away. No point dragging this out. He was embarrassed enough as it was, for a lot of reasons. Why had he even asked? Why was he so flustered by it?

Before he could take a single step away, Jack’s quiet, surprised voice piped, “You noticed I wasn’t here?”

How could he not?

Though he’d deny it to anyone who asked, seeing Jack was as much a part of his ritual as the coffee was. On many days, especially days when his leg was hurting something fierce, Jack’s smile and the camaraderie he had with his coworkers was enough to lift his mood from even the darkest of places. Even thinking about that smile, embarrassingly enough, lifted his spirits.

“In passing,” He blurted in reply, awkward and one-hundred percent a lie.

And he walked swiftly and stiffly away before he could let on that he wasn’t telling the truth.

It didn’t stop him from hearing Chase’s rough, mocking mutter of, “In passing. In passing my ass.”

He felt himself flush further.

Well, now, that was just rude.

When he looked back up at the counter, Jack was pointedly not looking in Chase’s direction, and Chase was chuckling to himself at his own station.

Thankfully, Jack didn’t bring up their prior conversation ― everything went as normal.

… Until he started to turn away to go sit down.

“Hang on,” Jack said, and if his voice cracked Damien was willing to ignore it.

So he paused, half-turned, and lifted his brows.

And he hated that he was so willing to drop everything to let Jack talk to him, despite the fact they’d had exactly one conversation that didn’t consist of him ordering in the entire time he’d been coming here.

“What’s your name?” Jack blurted, after a brief silence, “I, uh, can’t just keep calling you the Dark Roast Guy forever.”

Dark Roast Guy, he thought, struggling not to laugh.

Jack had been calling him Dark Roast Guy all this time?

“Smooth,” Chase laughed, from down the counter.

He couldn’t resist the smile pulling at his lips, especially when Jack turned bright red instantly at the quip.

“Maybe I should tell you mine, fir―”

The laugh fought its way out as a low chuckle.

He turned back to face him properly and lifted a hand to tap at the name tag pinned to Jack’s apron.

“I know your name, Jack.” He said, and couldn’t resist continuing to smile at the idea that Jack had gotten so flustered he forgot he had a nametag.

“Ah,” Replied Jack, weak and quiet.

He felt his own face heat, just a little, as he averted his eyes.

It was only polite to introduce himself.

“Damien,” He told him, “My name is Damien.”

And he turned on his heel and headed for his table.

When he glanced up after taking a seat, he saw Jack mouthing something ― it almost looked, though he didn’t want to get his hopes up, as though he was saying his name.

The smile that came onto his face when he’d finished had Damien’s heart tapping out a frantic and stupid rhythm against his ribcage.

Things went normally, after that.

And Damien, with some continued urging from Wilford in the form of threatening to date the pretty barista if he didn’t do it first, found the courage to flirt.

A little, at least.

“I don’t suppose,” Jack began, one average day, “There’s any way I could get you to try this with some sugar, huh?”

The simple curiosity wasn’t unusual ― they spoke to each other during these interactions far more often, now, and usually it was about his choice of drink, or the weather. Jack often jokingly tried to goad him into trying whatever the drink of the day was, but he seemed well aware of the fact that Damien wouldn’t be doing so.

And Damien had been sort of flirting, just a little, for about two weeks now, so he figured responding to the query with a vaguely flirtatious comment wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibilities that Jack must be expecting.

So he said, thinking of how very nice Jack managed to be despite working customer service, “I see no reason to add any further sweetness.”

He typed in his tip, mistyping his usual $10 and leaving a $100 in its place. He considered it, very, very briefly, and ultimately pressed ‘Accept’ regardless.

Jack laughed, shaking his head, and Damien chuckled in reply.

It felt truly ridiculous how much that little titter of a laugh could make his heart race.

He glanced at the counter to find Jack staring down at the receipt like he had suddenly forgotten how to read.

He leaned heavily on his cane, scowling straight ahead as he limped toward his office.

Today was a particularly bad day for his pain ― he’d not even wanted to get out of bed, but of course something would require his direct attention at the office. He’d actually called Wilford to drive him for the first time in months because the very idea of walking to the office instead made him want to die.

A few of his employees, the ones who happened to pass him in the hall, all but jumped out of his way while he went.

“You look more sour than usual,” Said Celine, as she met him in his office, “I’ve not seen your employees flee so quickly in almost a year.”

He grunted, carefully easing himself into his chair.

He really, really didn’t have a response prepared for that, nor did he really care to give one to begin with. Of course he seemed more sour than usual. He felt more sour than usual.

“Did you not think to stop by and see that barista of yours?” Celine continued, of course, “That always seems to keep you in a good enough mood.”

No.

He’d been in a hurry, and, frankly, the thought of Jack’s laugh and smile did little to budge the irritation bubbling under his skin.

When he didn’t reply, she gave him a considering look and sank into her usual seat.

She didn’t get to continue with whatever drivel she’d intended to continue on with, as Wilford and the other people they needed in order to get this situation sorted in this little emergency meeting. Damien’s attention was only needed, ultimately, because the department heads involved needed a tie breaker. An impartial party.

And he was properly impartial, this time, because the way he saw it, they were all equally ridiculous.

He gave his answer at the end of a painfully long meeting ― two hours, in fact ―, dismissed the idiots he was having trouble remembering why he hired, and sagged in his chair, rubbing absently at both the bridge of his nose and the spot just above his knee, to varying degrees of success in relieving the tension.

“Unclench your jaw,” Wilford said, from far too closeby, “You’ll only give yourself a worse headache, chum.”

He huffed, but unclenched his jaw. He’d not even realized he was clenching it.

“It must be a very bad day for your leg,” Celine supposed, also from entirely too nearby, “If you’re this irritable. Are you sure you don’t want to go get coffee?”

He hated that it had advanced to this ― that his interest in Jack had reached Celine, and become a bargaining chip of sorts to be used when he was feeling irritable.

Going to get coffee did sound like a good idea.

But, frankly, the reason she was suggesting it was because she thought Jack would be there to lift his mood by taking his order. And, unfortunately, at this time on a Wednesday, Jack would not be there. He worked split shifts on Wednesdays ― from four to eight in the morning, helping the shop open, and then from one to five in the afternoon.

There was no point in bothering. He’d be home and, hopefully, back in bed by the time that Jack was back on shift.

“I’m sure,” He told her, waving Wilford away when he noticed just how close he was, “I just want to go home.”

He heaved himself out of the chair, then, grabbing his cane to steady himself, and shuffled around the desk, pointedly ignoring his sister when she tried to catch his gaze.

He sighed, when both of them lingered at his side while he limped out of the office.

“Jack isn’t on duty right now,” He told them, “There’s no point in trying to get me to go to his place of work just because you think he’ll be able to cheer me up.”

“Worth a shot,” Wilford said, unbothered despite the way there was a hint of anxiety in his voice.

Celine hummed her agreement.

Neither of them touched him, but they stayed at his side until he got to the car.

He let himself in, sagging into the back seat, and let Celine and Wilford get into the front.

The very next day, when he walked into the Roasted Bean at his regular time, there was still a customer at the counter with Jack. He was leaning almost uncomfortably close to Jack across the counter, and the smile on Jack’s face made Damien’s blood boil.

It was ridiculous, he knew, but Jack had many smiles. Ones that looked like that were usually reserved for him ― amused, and crinkling his eyes at the edges.

Their eyes met over the other man’s shoulders, and Jack’s smile brightened into a full-on grin.

He said something to the other man, and the other man heaved himself up off the counter and, very pointedly, only stepped a little ways away. Close enough to still be in the way, but far enough that Damien could make it to the counter.

“Here we are,” Jack said, as he handed off his drink, “I hope it isn’t too cold, Damien. I got it ready a little earlier than usual.”

He hummed, trying hard not to be irritable for a host of reasons, “I’m sure it will be fine.”

He did his best not to limp as he headed to his table.

He glared after the man who’d been at the counter as he finally left, annoyed by his very existence, and more so by the fact that he’d clearly been flirting and Jack had been reciprocating.

That was his thing.

He flirted with Jack at the counter and got a smile and laugh in reply.

… He was even angrier with himself for feeling possessive of a man he’d never actually talked to outside of this shop.

He did his best to ensure the rest of the day went normally.

And, by the time he left at two, he was feeling a little less irritated, even though he was definitely still irritated and definitely still in pain.

He decided that, rather than continuing to labor on in a silent attempt at getting Jack’s attention without being creepy, he’d make a more obvious gesture.

He had a flower arrangement made while he was steadfastly avoiding getting any work done, and scrawled, ‘To: Jack’ onto the little card. He couldn’t bring himself to sign his own name, even though he knew it would make it difficult for his gesture to make any difference in their relationship. He just got too flustered and nervous thinking about it.

His hand was shaking.

He left it unsigned, and paid someone to deliver the arrangement in his stead.

It was unlikely, truly, that Jack would understand the message he was trying to send. The language of flowers wasn’t one that he’d learned for any practical purpose, so Jack probably didn’t know it ― he’d only learned it because Celine had learned it, and insisted it would do him some good one day.

He still wondered if that was true.

If it really mattered to Jack, or anyone else for that matter, what the arrangement of cornflowers and gardenias and yellow tulips actually meant.

He supposed, ultimately, it didn’t matter. Whether Jack understood his meaning or not didn’t matter.

He just hoped Jack would like the arrangement.

When he arrived for his coffee the next day, he’d placed a cornflower in his breast pocket as what he hoped would be an obvious signal.

The arrangement he’d made was sitting proud and beautiful next to Jack’s register, carefully placed so that it would not get in his way, and Damien felt his heart flutter. He hoped that meant that Jack liked them.

The delight on Jack’s face all but confirmed that.

He smiled a bit, to himself.

“Looks like whoever sent me flowers yesterday got to you, too,” Jack said, as he handed him his drink.

The tone implied that Jack didn’t really think that, that he had suspicions about who had sent the flowers. Good.

Great, even.

He smiled, a little, and otherwise didn’t reply.

“Never gotten flowers before,” Jack mused while he swiped his card, “It was really nice.”

Never?

How in the world had this ray of sunshine of a man never gotten flowers before?

Before he could question it aloud, Jack laughed and shook his head, flushing, “Sorry. Sorry, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

“I’m sure whoever sent them is… Very interested,” He replied, trying hard not to sound awkward or hopeful, “They’d probably be delighted to know you enjoyed the gesture this much.”

“Well,” Said Jack, in the tone that usually meant he was joking, “Maybe they shoulda signed the card, then, so I could thank them myself.” Then, almost an afterthought, “They could just be being nice, anyway.”

He felt himself flush.

Just being nice?

Ah, even he knew that nobody in their right mind spent the kind of money he’d spent on that arrangement just to be nice.

“Perhaps,” He suggested, taking his card back, “They’re just shy.”

“Perhaps,” Jack agreed, smiling shyly.

He smiled in return, and he headed to his table.

“You sent him flowers?” Celine asked, seeming genuinely taken aback as she made herself comfortable next to him on the couch, “What flowers? What did he say? You have to tell me everything.”

“Don’t get so ahead of yourself,” He told her, though he couldn’t help smiling, as he flicked through the listings on one of his streaming services, “I didn’t even sign the card, Celine, don’t act proud so soon.”

She scoffed, swatting his thigh. “I know you didn’t sign the card, Damien, you’re a pathetic wet cat of a man when it comes to emotions. Tell me everything anyway.”

He rolled his eyes, swatting her in return. “They were blue cornflowers, gardenias, and yellow tulips,” He explained, hearing her gasp, “And he seemed very happy to have them. He mentioned he’d never received flowers before.”

“You are such a sap at heart,” She crooned, laying her head on his shoulder, “What a sweet message.” Then, quieter, “You’ll have to send him more, then, if that’s the case.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” He admitted, “I’m just not sure when is an acceptable time to send more after the first one.”

Celine chuckled.

He shifted, a little, jostling her but making it possible for him to settle his chin atop her head.

“Genuinely,” Celine said, after a long silence while they settled in to watch some asinine program together, “I’m happy to see you having feelings for someone again. The last time was, what, the local D.A. back home? Before they even became the D.A.?”

He hummed his agreement.

Then, quietly, “Jack is… Different. He just… Makes me happy. Even if I can’t have him, he makes me happy.”

“But you get as jealous as I do, don’t lie,” She prodded, “You need to seize the chance while it’s there.”

“Yes,” He snorted, “Before Wilford snatches it away from me.”

She snorted in reply, “Precisely.”

The following week, he got home with his now-empty coffee cup after a regular Tuesday at the Roasted Bean.

Before he tossed the cup into his trash, he noticed something scrawled on the side.

A phone number.

Jack’s phone number, if his name written above it meant anything.

He froze.

He put the number in his phone, but ― was it too late? Jack had written this at his noon refill! Had he already missed his chance?

Oh, God, he’d already ruined it, hadn’t he?

Oh, no.

He sort of agonized over it for the rest of the week.

No matter how many times Celine or Wilford told him to just text, tell the truth about why it took so long, and pray for the best, he couldn’t convince his stupid fingers to type the stupid message.

To make matters worse, he spent Friday and Saturday stuck in bed because of his leg acting up, so he was more afraid than he’d already been of texting. What if he said something stupid while he was in pain? What if he acted like an asshole?

Should he just pretend he hadn’t seen his number? Give it another shot if Jack tried again?

Go out on a limb and give Jack his number?

Either option just made his stomach twist.

Feelings were stupid, he decided, and he hated how anxious one cute Irish barista could make him.

He knew things were worse than he’d thought when he walked into the Roasted Bean on Tuesday at his usual time, and there was only one barista at the counter.

And it was Chase.

And Chase did not look happy.

He deserved that, he imagined, and he knew it was directed at him when Chase saw him and only frowned deeper.

“Is Jack here?” He asked, quietly, when he reached the counter.

Chase scowled, “Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t disclose my coworkers’ schedule.”

He tried not to scowl in return. He deserved this.

“He gave me his schedule himself,” He argued, as gently as he could, “I know he works during this time. I just want to talk to him.”

“You wanna talk to him?” Chase asked, all false-kindness and a smile that didn’t reach his furious eyes, “You want to talk to Jack? Let me just go and get him right now!”

Damien winced before Chase even had a chance to tack on the end of the statement.

The angry, loud, “Not!”

He winced again after it came out.

“Chase,” He tried.

“Oh, no, bud,” The barista hissed, “You had your chance to talk to him. Don’t start with that shit now.”

“Please,” Damien sighed in reply, to Chase’s clear surprise, “Listen, I― I didn’t see he’d left his number until I got back home.”

Chase seemed to consider that, some of the anger fading off. Just a little of it.

“I got…” He tried, “I got nervous.”

Chase stared him down for a long moment, still angry and definitely not willing to budge just yet. But something in his face, or else his willingness to admit why he’d not texted Jack, got the barista to sigh and wave him off to the side.

He stepped over without questioning it.

Without looking at him, Chase took and completed two people’s orders before waving him back into place. He noticed, as he did, that Chase had also made two other drinks that he’d sat off to the side.

“Alright, you listen,” He began, in a tone that wasn’t unlike the one Celine used when she thought Wilford was being too childish, “I’m sorry my friend is stupid and didn’t tell you that he gave you his number, but you are equally as stupid, do you realize that? In what fucking universe does not signing the card on the sappy fuckin’ flower arrangement help anything?”

Fair.

Very fair.

He opened his mouth. closed it.

Motioned, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was trying to convey with his hands.

He really, truly, did not know how to reply, because Chase, regrettably enough, was entirely correct.

Finally, he motioned toward his breast pocket in an attempt to say that he’d tried to rectify the mistake of not putting his name on the card by signalling with a flower.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chase said, not impressed, “Y’wore one fo the flowers you gave him in your suit as a signal, I know. And I’m pretty sure he eventually picked up on it! But do you have any idea how much easier this would have been on both of you if you just signed the card?”

“I―” He tried.

“You’re a stupid bitch.”

Ouch.

But, well.

He was still correct.

And, somehow, he seemed significantly less angry now.

“Not an unfair assertion,” He sighed in reply, looking away.

Chase shook his head and motioned him to the side.

He took another order and didn’t look at him for the duration.

Then, over Chase’s shoulder, he saw Jack peeking out from the back of the shop. He almost perked up, but… No. He’d made his bed, he’d better lie in it and not give himself further false hope.

“Chase,” The other barista said, after a quiet moment.

Though Chase didn’t reply verbally, once he was looking at him, Jack seemed to force a smile.

“I got it,” He said.

“You sure?” Chase asked.

“I’m sure.”

A nod.

Then, oozing fake concern, “Oh, no, would you look at that, it’s time for you to go on your break.”

When Jack furrowed his brows and tried to protest, or question, that assertion, Chase merely grabbed him and pushed him out from behind the counter, repeating, “Oh, no. it’s time for you to go on your break.”

Jack seemed bewildered, but took the two coffees that Chase had set aside earlier when the other barista all but shoved them into his hands.

“Here’s your coffees,” He said, sternly, “Go.”

He watched him nearly trip his way around the edge of the counter, and carefully accepted the cup that was offered to him when Jack reached him. And he followed when Jack motioned over toward a fairly private corner near the registers.

“I think we need to talk,” Jack said, very maturely.

“I…” He swallowed, “Agree.”

“I maybe could have been more upfront about my intentions last week,” Jack began, carefully, “But I just… I really thought you were interested, and I—”

“I am,” Damien replied, trying hard not to sound forceful despite the way the words fought their way out of his mouth.

“… You are?”

The hopeful tone of Jack’s voice, the small hints of the same emotion in his eyes… It made Damien feel like his heart was twisting. He’d really fucked this up, hadn’t he?

At least he was getting a chance to fix it, he decided.

He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.

“I am,” Damien repeated, feeling himself flush, “I… Should have been more upfront about my intentions as well. I’d… I’d like to take you out.”

“… On a date or with a sniper rifle?”

Before he could reply to that, Chase groaned, “Jack, I’m going to kick you into the stratosphere.”

“Please don’t,” Damien said, before Jack could sass back at him as he so clearly wanted to, “I think I’d have trouble getting there to order coffee.”

Seemingly caught off-guard and, thankfully, amused, Chase put his head in his hands and said, “Oh my God.”

He felt himself flush again when, after he finally looked away from Chase, he found Jack watching him.

“... To answer your question,” He said, feeling the heat return to his cheeks, “I’d prefer a date. I do like you alive.”

Celine’s voice in the back of his head said something to the effect of, ‘Real romantic, there, Romeo. Spectacular wooing capabilities you have.’

He tried to ignore it, even though he knew it was correct.

“Well if that’s the case,” Jack said, sounding even more hopeful this time, “I think I’d like to go on a date with you, too. Just…” He trailed, looking uncertain, “Text me this time?”

“I will,” He promised, immediately and sincerely.

If not just because he needed to for this to work, then because Wilford may well do something about it.

“My brother-in-law,” He added, “May well drag me here by my ear next time if I freeze up like I did this time.”

No point in telling Jack that Wilford would drag him here specifically so he had to watch while Wilford flirted with the man he fancied, in hopes it would force him to act.

Thankfully, Jack seemed to find that to be amusing, because he snorted, then swiftly took a drink as if to pretend he hadn’t started laughing.

It was terribly charming.

He smiled, and tried to hide it behind the lid of his own coffee cup.

After a long moment of them sipping their drinks and simply enjoying each others’ company, he took a breath.

“Would you like to know,” He asked, “What the flowers meant?”

Jack lit up like a Christmas tree, “Yeah, I would,” He said, eager, “I never did remember to look it up.”

Okay.

He could do this.

He dropped his voice softer, leaning a little closer as he felt his cheeks begin to burn, “Blue cornflowers mean… ‘Be gentle with me’, gardenias mean ‘you’re lovely’. And…” He trailed, clearing his throat before continuing, a little hoarsely, “Yellow tulips mean ‘there is sunshine in your smile’.”

It had been a fitting arrangement, he thought.

It said much more than he’d been able to convince himself to say at the time.

When he glanced up, Jack looked a little stunned. His mouth was open, slightly, in a little ‘o’, eyes wide.

“Oh,” He said, softly, and Damien got the privilege of watching his cheeks heat and his lips slowly curve into a smile.

He smiled in turn, and if he happened to see Chase fist-pump out of the corner of his eye, he ignored it.

“You’re looking terribly sunny,” Said Wilford, as he walked into work the following day.

He felt terribly sunny, to be frank ― despite the way his leg was twinging with constant spikes of pain, and the way he had to lean on his cane to prevent it from worsening, he was in a rather chipper mood. Not even the pain was enough to budge his quiet cheer.

“Am I?” He asked, instead of giving Wilford any details before he actually asked.

Wilford could work for his answers. He was a big boy.

And Damien, admittedly, was feeling a bit mischievous.

“You are,” Wilford confirmed, “Whatever could have you in such a good mood?”

“Care to take a guess?” He asked in turn, raising a brow as he hobbled to his chair.

There was a silence, a longer one than was generally possible in Wilford’s presence.

And then, after he’d sat down, Wilford’s face slowly lit up in realization and delight.

“Dames!” He said, “You finally did it, did you? Did it go well? Oh, what am I talking about ― it must have!”

“I’m taking him to dinner this weekend, if that tells you anything at all.”

Wilford cackled in delight, “Oh, I’ve got to tell Celine! She’ll be positively gobsmacked.”

“You’d better hurry, if you want to tell her before I do. I already called her.” He smirked, “She’s on her way here, right now.”

Wilford scrambled up off the couch in his office and made a beeline for the door.

Celine walked in before he even made it.

And Damien, unable to help it, dissolved into laughter.