Work Text:
The toes of Futaba's boots beat lightly against the front of the bar as she swings her feet. If it were anyone else, Sojiro would glare at them until they stopped, but it's one of many special privileges granted to his daughter.
Her attention is all on her phone, but he sees the glances she keeps shooting toward the door. Every time it opens, she sits upright hopefully - and then slouches right back down with a nasty look for whatever customer has dared enter the shop. There's no point in saying anything to her about it - she can read the clock just as well as he can - and the one on the device in her hand is likely to be more accurate than the one overhead anyway.
Sojiro runs a cloth along the bartop, chasing a few crumbs from the last customer. The counter is far from spotless - it's covered in scratches and knicks and a few scorch marks where he had left something hot just a little too long without a trivet to protect the wood. It speaks of the history of his little shop, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. He's heard all manner of comments about Leblanc, about what a dump it is, wonderings about how he manages to stay open - but he sees just as often the same customers settling into the worn booths or sees the same shoes resting in the same shadows on the brass in front of the sturdy stools, and all those comments mean nothing.
A chime goes off somewhere, and Sojiro reaches for two mugs. He pours milk into a small saucepan, setting it on the burner and adding scoops of cocoa before he turns to the coffee. He sets the siphon on to heat and takes down one of the jars of beans from the wall, scooping some into the grinder. A few quick pulses has it at the consistency he needs, and once the water is boiling, he pours in the coffee and stirs it carefully before setting the device to the side to let the process continue.
His hands are steady as he pours Futaba's hot chocolate into her mug, setting it next to her. She reaches up absently to turn its handle toward herself, all her attention still on her phone - on the train schedules he can see reflected in her glasses. He knows there's no real need, but he won't comment on that, either.
It's ten past when the bell over the door alerts them to an incoming customer, and Sojiro looks up from pouring coffee into the other mug. "It's about time," he comments dryly, and the visitor's mouth quirks up as he adjusts his hold on his duffle bag - and then lets it go entirely as Futaba launches herself into his arms.
Akira catches Futaba easily to return her hug, and Sojiro just smiles as he sets his son's mug into the circular stain on the bartop where it belongs.