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Frank’s a little suspicious of the first coffee Jensen brings him. Outside of their usual sniping as their jobs force them to co-operate, their only interactions are relegated to the helipad when they coincidentally end up outside on synchronised smoke breaks. And those are usually silent.
“What’s this?” Frank asks, eying Jensen over the top of his screens.
“Need your eyes tested, Pritchard? I know a guy.” Jensen sits the coffee down on a clear corner of the desk and stalks off, hunching into his coat.
It’s his favourite kind – caramel mocha – which is very suspicious, because the only people who should know that are Frank and the baristas at the café across the road. He doesn’t drink the canteen coffee-flavoured sludge unless he’s desperate. And no one who’s gotten on the sharper side of his acidic tongue would peg him for having a sweet tooth.
There’s a post-it tucked into the band of the cup, which he only notices after he’s drunk half. It takes him a moment to parse Jensen’s absolutely shitty handwriting.
Broke your canteen mug. Sorry.
Frank lets out a completely undignified noise and gets to his feet. He’s going to kill him.
Unfortunately for him – Jensen’s set off on some mission or other, and by the time he’s back, Frank’s already mostly forgotten about the mug. He’s got enough shit to deal with, and Jensen replaces it anyway.
The second coffee makes him more suspicious. It’s on his desk – no Jensen in sight – and Frank can see the tell-tale yellow corner peeking out under the band.
“What now,” he mutters as he unfolds the note.
Clipped your motorcycle mirror. Sorry.
He brings the coffee with him as he tracks Jensen down, if only so he can throw it at his face.
He doesn’t find Jensen, and by the time he drinks his coffee in despair, it’s gone cold.
Christ, he really hates that guy. Handsome, insufferable prick.
But Jensen pays Frank back for the damages with a sheepish smile and a mumbled excuse he doesn’t listen to. His poor baby Aerith doesn’t deserve such mistreatment, which he points out to Jensen, only to have the man snicker at his motorcycle’s name and call him a nerd.
Frank signs him up for even more spam emails after that.
By the third coffee, Frank’s gotten used to this game. He takes his time to enjoy the beverage before reading the note. He still hasn’t figured out how Jensen got his coffee order, but at least he makes the effort. Most of the people clogging his inbox with complaints about broken technology just expect him to do his job for free.
Some jerk signed me up for a million spam emails. Help.
He hadn’t expected that. He has to clean coffee off his monitors when he laughs so hard it hurts.
“Alright, Jensen,” Frank mutters to himself. “Well played.”
He carefully unsubscribes all the spam emails he’d signed Jensen up for. But he also signs Jensen’s credit card up for a monthly coffee subscription box.
It’s the little things in life that bring the most joy, after all. And Jensen can afford it.
They’ve – almost – become friends – when the attack on Sarif Industries happens. And when Jensen comes back to work – comes back from the dead – everyone treats him like a ghost.
So Frank drops by his office on Jensen’s second day on the job – the first had been a disaster, after all – with one of those disgustingly sweet custard Danish pastries he knows the other man likes.
“Unlike you, I don’t have anything to apologise for,” Frank says archly as he sets the Danish down on the desk. “But you looked like you needed something to eat.”
“You could apologise for those monthly subscription boxes,” Jensen mutters as he picks up the pastry. Eyes it suspiciously. “The coffee one was fine, but the sex toys are a bit much.”
Frank snorts. “Please. I wouldn’t do that kind of thing to a co-worker. Those must’ve come from you.” At least, he doesn’t remember signing Jensen up for one of those. Unless he’d mixed up – oh no. Oh no.
“I have suddenly remembered a very urgent email I need to attend to,” Frank mutters, practically diving out of Jensen’s office.
“Thanks for the pastry!” Jensen calls out behind him, and he sounds like he’s laughing, the asshole.
A couple of days later, Jensen’s at Frank’s desk with a coffee in his hands. But no note.
Frank raises an eyebrow. “Jensen?”
“Can’t write very well yet,” he mutters, shoving the coffee towards him. “Broke another keyboard.”
Frank carefully takes the coffee before it spills. “Oh.” It’s the third one in as many days – Jensen’s chewing through keyboards faster than Frank can find spares. “Alright.”
“Sorry,” Jensen mumbles, hiding his face against the upturned collar of his coat.
“Oh please,” Frank waves a hand at him. “You’ve never seen how many keyboards I can break in a week during gaming competitions. It’s fine.”
Jensen gives him a tentative smile. Relaxes his shoulders slightly. “Yeah. Okay.”
Like they’d never stopped – like Jensen had never left – the coffees start up again. His handwriting gets better in each one, a litany of things that his not-quite-human hands have touched and accidentally broken. Keyboards, mice. Monitors. His own desk chair, which was fairly impressive, given the state Frank found it in. He almost doesn’t need to bother getting his own coffees, now.
It makes him feel a little guilty. So for every coffee, he sources out something new for Jensen to eat. He’d heard the scientists talking about Jensen’s sense of taste being off ever since he’d gotten augmented. Hacked into a few databases to find him reporting the symptom – casually, as though it didn’t matter – to his doctor.
Other people might have felt guilt at looking over a co-worker’s private files.
Frank Pritchard did not have time for such petty concerns. He had pastries to find. Cupcakes to deliver. Revenge to serve sweet.
He keeps a careful database next to the myriad idle games he plays while he waits for his code to compile. Notes down Jensen’s reactions to each new dessert.
They’re on one of their smoke breaks – Frank’s not sure why Jensen bothers to smoke after the accident, but he’s not going to pry – when Jensen breaks their habitual silence.
“Pritchard, how many bakeries are there in Detroit?”
“I’m not answering that question, Jensen. Why are you asking?”
“You’re going to run out of snacks.”
“Not any time soon, though. Don’t worry.”
There’s a pause, and a thought occurs to him under the weak afternoon sunlight. “Jensen, how did you get my coffee order?”
“I showed them your picture and asked what you ordered.” Jensen shifts slightly away from him. “They were all very happy I started picking up coffees for my boyfriend.”
“Boy- Oh.” That explains why the bakeries have been so – sweet to him. They probably assumed the same. “Interesting.”
Jensen gives him a sidelong look. “Interesting?”
“The bakeries might think the same about you. Suppose we’re dating now.”
Jensen chokes. Coughs. Thumps at his chest. “What?”
Frank eyes him up and down and shrugs. “Neither of us work tonight. I’ll pick you up.”
“That’s not how you ask someone on a date, Francis!” Jensen’s voice is strangled.
“Oh.” Frank sighs and finishes his cigarette. “Want to go on a date tonight? I’ll buy you dinner.”
Jensen stares at him as though Frank’s grown a second head. And then he laughs. “Alright.”
If he’d known it would be that easy, he would’ve asked months ago.
“See? Now we’re dating. Those sex toy boxes will come in handy after all.”
“Francis-“ Jensen chokes.
“See you at eight, Adam.”
Frank grins to himself as he leaves the helipad, whistling an idle tune. He ought to go hack them a reservation somewhere nice.