Chapter Text
Working at a convenience store might not be the most glamorous job, but it isn’t without its perks. Gaby and Napoleon spend their downtime watching youtube videos, seeing how many Skittles they can stuff in their mouth and still be able to talk to a customer, and a whole host of other games they’ve invented.
The customers themselves are a mixed bag; sometimes you get boring ones, but it’s fun to watch people pass through. Sometimes they talk too much or not at all, but their mannerisms and quirks are easy to see as they browse and fumble with change. Sometimes interesting doesn’t mean fun, like the drunk college kid that tries to haggle the price of cigarettes or the woman that decides she needs to sample the chocolate bars before finding the best one.
So it’s anyone’s guess whether it’s about to get interesting or frustrating when an enormous man bursts into the store like he’s on fire. She has to stifle a laugh as she points him in the right direction when he casts a panicked look at her and grunts, “Milk?”
People sometimes come in to get a quart of milk when they realize they’re out, but she still finds it a disproportionate reaction. Surely his bowl of cereal can wait!
When he dumps an armful of milk on the counter, Gaby whistles appreciatively. “What the h--”
“Do you have more?” He interrupts in a thick accent, staring down at her like it’s a life or death situation.
“Yeah,” she squints back up at him, certain that it’ll be entertaining to see him sweat a little.
“I need seven more gallons of milk. Please.”
Gaby sighs and counts the quarts of milk he already has and raises an eyebrow. “How are you gonna carry it all?”
“What?”
“It’s a lot of milk.” He looks taken aback, and she shrugs, not even trying to hide her grin.
“I’ll carry it.” He grinds the words out slowly, obviously annoyed. “Do. You. Have. Any. More. Milk?”
The desperation behind the irritated tone moves her slightly, and she decides that she likes his face. He seems like the type of man who wants to be in control, and Gaby likes that he’s kind of a hot mess right now, finds the distracted anxiety somehow endearing.
“I’ll go look.”
It’s delivery day, so they still have plenty in stock. The black crates they arrive in are too heavy for her to carry more than one at a time, so she stacks them and pushes them to the door. He’s waiting on the other side, and so she stops and gestures at the tower of milk crates as she walks back to the counter.
“You’ve got all those muscles, put them to good use.”
He drags them over with an ease that sparks momentary jealousy. He slaps a card down on the counter and begins to carry them out to his car, balancing three crates without even straining.
The nerve.
She looks at his card, running a finger across the imprinted name. Illya Kuryakin. It sounds familiar somehow, but she doesn’t know any Russians. Shrugging, she rings up his order and by the time he comes back in, the receipt is printing. She hands him a pen and he just scribbles illegibly on the paper.
Gaby makes as though to hand him back his card, but pulls her hand back at the last moment. “What’s it all for?”
His reach is long enough that he is easily able to snatch it from her, and the only response she gets is a perfunctory smile and a “Thanks” before he lifts the remaining crate and rushes out the door.
If it’s one thing Gaby hates, it’s an unresolved mystery.
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Today’s Napoleon’s birthday, and she’s scrolling through bakery listings on her phone while she’s on the bus. Gaby’s been saving up for about a month just for his cake; he’s got expensive taste, and she doesn’t want a repeat of last year. Shuddering remembering the scene he’d made about the grocery store cupcakes she’d gotten as a prank, she picks the most expensive bakery with a good rating.
It’s full of amazing desserts, but she heads straight for the cakes. She leans down to look through the case, pressing against the window with her hands as she goggles at the cakes. They’re varied and beautifully decorated, and she’s at a loss to know what to pick. There’s an empty space, and she watches with excitement as two hands appear to place a new cake down. Instantly, she knows, it’s got Napoleon all over it, from the chocolate glaze to the gold leaf accent. Shooting upright, she’s shocked to see the man from the previous week’s milk incident straightening up. His expression is more serene, but his figure no less imposing in a chef’s coat and an apron dusted in cocoa powder.
“The Milk Man!” The exclamation is surprised out of her, but she recovers when she hears a snicker coming from the room behind him.
“I am not milkman?” His tone turns the statement into a question, and he stares at her in bewilderment a moment before understanding dawns upon him. Crossing his arms, he frowns askance at her. “The shop girl.”
“Don’t say ‘shop girl’ like that,” Gaby retorts indignantly, imitating his accent. “I was left wondering for days what someone could possibly need that much milk for. Three words! That’s all you needed to say.”
The crease in his brow clears and he laughs. “What words?”
His smiling gaze is fixed on her and it makes Gaby’s breath hitch. It’s a good look on him. “I’m. A. Baker.” She ticks the words off on her fingers and looks at him expectantly, unwilling to let him set her off her guard.
“Is ‘I’m’ really one word?”
“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I meant. I want that cake.”
When he looks at her in confusion, Gaby jabs a finger at the glass. “The one you just put in the case.”
“Don’t touch the glass,” he chides, but he doesn’t give her time to retaliate. “Do you want box?”
“Yes.” She glowers at him. “With a ribbon. And I want you to write ‘Happy Birthday’ on it.”
He bows mockingly and brings the cake to the back and the girl that’s been hovering behind the case comes over to ring up the purchase for her.
When he hands her the cake in a special carrying bag, Gaby realizes that she isn’t ready for this to be the last interaction they have, yet she can’t find an excuse to linger.
“Thank you.” It comes out petulantly, but Gaby doesn’t know what else to say; he gives her a smile and goes back into what must be the bakery.
When she gets to work and gives the cake to Napoleon, he’s beyond thrilled. When he unboxes it, Gaby’s infuriated to see that although the cake remains untouched, the box has HAPPY BIRTHDAY written in bold sharpie all over it, with a dainty red bow drawn on the top.
If she’s mollified by the small box of neat little macarons with a note addressed to her it’s no surprise. Through the rest of her shift, she’s not embarrassed to be caught rereading the note, hoping for more than just the face value of an offer to become a returning taste tester for his new cakes.