Work Text:
It happened on a typical Tuesday.
Phillip got up (groaning and with bones clicking as he was nearer 50 than he was 40 nowadays), he nearly tripped over his cat, Squiggles, who glared at him as if it was his fault she’d been laying underfoot, and he’d left for work, only to remember he’d forgotten to water his two houseplants, Bill and Ben (they are flowerpot men, you see), so he had to rush back inside to do so, lest he spent the whole day at work feeling guilty.
Once he’d reached work—a quaint, little coffee shop that he owned—things ran a bit more smoothly; setting the coffee machine up, putting out the various cakes and pastries, and turning on the speakers so soft classical music played in the background.
Kitty, a member of his staff, arrived just before opening; a takeaway cup of coffee from a rivalry shop down the road in her hand.
“S’up, Phil.” She saluted at him with the cup of coffee; shuffling into the backroom to take off her coat and replace it with her apron.
Phillip just sighed and rolled his eyes; painfully used to it.
Kitty was around 26 years old, had short, blonde hair that curled around the lobes of her ears, green eyes, a septum piercing, and carried around a distinct lack of fucks. She had perfected the fake serviceperson voice for dealing with customers, but more importantly she was a hard worker.
“Yes, good morning, Kitty.” He called, and then the day truly began.
They were in the middle of a lull in customers, when he arrived.
Phillip looked up from where he’d been filling in a crossword puzzle at the till; the jingle of the bell above the door having conditioned him long ago like Pavlov’s star pupil. He took one look at the man who had entered and was staring at the display case of sweet, baked goods with a level of intensity usually reserved for things less trivial than a mid-afternoon snack, and he panicked.
He had neatly combed, wheat-blond hair, noticeable ears that reminded Phillip of a hippo, and a serious looking face that some might call brutish, if not for the soft, ocean-blue eyes and the faint curve of his smile as he investigated the rather reasonable (if he did say so himself) selection of muffins on offer. The man had broad shoulders leading to a very distracting tapered waist; and the body that wouldn’t look out of place in a gym, was wrapped in beige chinos, a salmon-pink shirt, and a baby-blue ascot.
Phillip had the hysterical thought that he faintly reminded him of Ferdinand the bull from the 1938 Disney short film, where the bull preferred to sit under a cork tree and smell the flowers than fight matadors. That is to say—
Soft and beefy.
Which was exactly Phillip’s type, and not one that usually frequented his coffee shop that was painted in pale yellows and purples. And which was why, once he’d noted all of these points of interest within the span of about five seconds; he rang his hands together anxiously, took one step towards the man, took two steps back the other way and repeat—twirling in circles like a dog trying to get comfortable before flopping down on the floor.
He dillied. He dallied.
He dicked about.
And then he ran walked with purpose into the back kitchen, and said—
“Kitty. I need you to work the till please.”
“No.” Kitty sat without batting an eye; not stopping in her diligent dish washing.
Phillip reared back in shock, though he really shouldn’t be surprised. “What do you mean no?”
She levelled him with a flat look and popped her bubblegum at him; making him finally know what it felt like to be a target of one of the pretty, mean girls in the school playground. “I mean the opposite of yes.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Well, yes, I do know what the word means, I’m just—” He scrunched up his face and squinted at her. “—I am the owner and boss, yes?”
Kitty shrugged as if to say, if you say so, which…fair.
“Alright. Yes I walked into that one. But, please, Kitty. I need you to serve the customer who has just walked in.” He said it with the most authority he could muster.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Why? You usually prefer to serve customers.”
That was true. It kept him from going insane. But he had a feeling the who had just walked in would make him lose more braincells than the silence of a single, middle-aged, gay man’s life ever could.
“Yes, well—”
Kitty shook her hands dry, strode past him into the main shop, and then came back in three seconds later. (He counted). “Nope. You serve him.”
“But—”
“You’re just pissing your pants because you think he’s hot, but you need to get out more, Phil. So, go serve him, and maybe the tip you’ll end up getting won’t just be money.”
He blushed as she winked and he worked out what she was implying; and despite being the owner and boss, he turned around and went back out to find the man in question—who was causing him so much mental aggravation—stood in front of the till; humming to himself and waiting patiently.
Phillip brushed his hand over his greying hair; awkwardly sidled up to the counter to stand in front of the till, and offered him a small smile. “Um—yes—hello?”
Well, that went well.
“Hello to you too, there.” The man chuckled; his voice a…unique…southern drawl, that sent tingles down Phillip’s spine. “Lovely quaint café this. I’m not from the area, as you may have guessed from my accent, but something about it made me feel like I needed to come in here, and I have to say…” His blue eyes twinkled as he smiled wildly at him. “…I think my intuition was right.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “Do you…often just listen to your intuition like that?”
“You could say that.” The man hummed. “I apologise, but I must ask, are you okay…” He looked at the nametag on Phillip’s apron. “…Phillip?”
Phillip let out a strangled sort of noise at hearing his own name pass over a plump bottom lip that should be illegal and made him think thoughts that were not work appropriate—especially on a Tuesday afternoon. “Why—Why wouldn’t I be okay…?” He trailed off, in the hopes of getting a name in return.
“Benoit.” Oh, that was a nice name. “And, well, I didn’t mean to pry, but I saw you—” He waggled his finger in a circle-like motion. “—sort of dance? pace? in front of this here till, out the corner of my eye, as I was admiring your pastry case, and then you disappeared, and I assume, spoke to the delightfully mean-looking young lady who then appeared, and now you have a slight—uh—flush to your cheeks.” Oh god. “Are you ill?”
“N—No. No.” He shook his head; fingers twisting in his apron. “I’m perfectly fine. I was just—ah—rather worked up about…. my crossword puzzle.”
Oh by golly, by gum, why is he like this?
“Oh?” Benoit sounded both amused, and disappointed. Which made no fucking sense. “My detective skills are maybe not as up to scratch as they should be then, I really thought perhaps maybe you were as interested in me as I am you, which is why I waited for you to come back out, but maybe I was wrong?” He hummed. “Perhaps I could help with the clue instead?”
“I’m sorry?” He was completely baffled.
First by the fact that he could’ve sworn Benoit said he was interested in him. And second, because he was apparently just going to skim over that bombshell due to assumed non-requited interest and be satisfied with helping Phillip with his non-existent crossword problem, like that would be as equally tickety-boo.
It made no damn sense. It did compel him towards the charming, bizarre, handsome man even more though; which was both dangerous, and rather exhilarating.
“The crossword puzzle? I could perhaps help with what you were so worked up about?”
Phillip shook his head vigorously and straightened his spine; no longer overcome with hysteria and confusion in the face of Benoit potentially leaving this very establishment thinking Phillip didn’t think he was the most attractive man he’d ever seen. “No. No. Fuck the crossword puzzle. I’ve completed it anyway. Can we just go back to the bit where you said you were interested in me and waiting for me to come back out from the kitchen? Because I feel like we didn’t discuss that enough. And by enough I mean, at all.”
Benoit leant forward, placing his elbow on the counter, and winked at him. “Well, I am sorry for that, Phillip. I can tell you’re a busy man—” Lies. There are only three people in the shop, and that includes him, Benoit and Kitty. “—so I didn’t want to waste your time with idle chit chat that was not to your tastes, but if you’re saying they are?”
“They are.” He rushed to say, clearing his throat. “I mean. You. Are. You are to my tastes, Benoit.”
“Then I guess, perhaps, we could continue discussing our shared and individual tastes over dinner? Tomorrow?”
He opened his mouth to say yes, when—
“Yes. He says yes!” Kitty shouted from the kitchen.
“Yes.” He agreed quietly.
Benoit nodded his head and smiled. “Alright then. Well. Here’s my number, I’ll pick you up from outside here tomorrow at 6?”
Phillip looked down at the card he’d been handed and huffed out a surprised laugh. “Oh, you are actually a detective?” How fascinating. How sexy. “And yes, 6 tomorrow is good. Very good in fact.”
Benoit winked at him, and then stood back up straight and wandered towards the door. It took Phillip a moment, but then he frowned. “Don’t you want something to eat or drink? I thought you said you came in here for a reason?” He called to the other man’s back.
The detective spun around; his hands tucked in his chino pockets. “You have a mighty fine selection of baked goods on display, Phillip, but it wasn’t one of your pretty pastries that compelled me to walk into your shop.”
And then he left.
Leaving Phillip stood there with butterflies in his stomach, a smile on his face, and a potential future crammed into the size of a business card held in his hand.
Tuesday just became his favourite day of the week.