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The late-night drug ops was, at most, successful. Strikhor made sure of that- meticulously planned: shipments sealed tight and loading trucks ready for en route, rendezvous clear of any signs that they have been there. The key word there was at most. He’d come to the rendezvous point with a headache from blunt force impact, and a light squabble between goons became a full-blown fistfight that nearly toppled half of the shipment boxes in the truck. Thankfully, his knight-in-shining-armor-savior-of-a-saint for an assistant was there to de-escalate before they could suffer any repercussions. The preluding nights were spent in detailed discussion with his co-operatives and their respective duties. No single hero had come guns blazing or cape flourishing in the dark. After the succession of failures within the month, this was a well-received blessing and he would prefer not to look the gift horse in the mouth and take it as it is.
Now, at god-knows crack of dawn AM post-operation, the fatigue started to sink into his bones. A fog blankets this district, natural mist that could be mistaken as smoky air pollution despite it being one of the better-off areas in the city. He breaths in the cool air, quieting the remaining nerves in his system. The damp ground of crunching gravel and the smell of rotten garbage in the alley he chose to hid in was getting unbearable on his sensitive senses. The kevlar now felt heavy against his body; choosing to take it off and keep it in his duffle bag, about to get into his closest safehouse and simply rest.
Mounting his bike, Strikhor exits the dark alleyway, on his way back. Then as he rounds the curb, the warm neon lights of the infamous 24/7 Café within the block comes into view; right on cue, his stomach grumbles in hunger. He hasn’t eaten anything throughout the whole night and now he’s paying for it. With slight grumbling, he decides to make a pit stop.
Reluctantly, he stops and parks on the sidewalk, giving in to his temptations. Even outside, the coffee shop smells of espresso and well-baked pastries. His stomach is practically growling at him to eat, mouth watering at the savory and sweet smell. Sluggishly, he ducks to walk into the shop, feet all but dragging as the bell on the door top rings.
(Unbeknownst to him, the owner behind the counter freezes the moment they see the hulking villain make his entrance. Despite having known of the plans made about their late night, ahem, activities, they were not prepared to meet him at this ungodly hour in their own shop .)
When Strikhor reaches the counter, his order on his lips, he’s greeted with a very, very familiar face. He recognizes those tired yet expressive brown eyes and crooked broken nose with a scar across the bridge.
He blinks. Once. Twice. Slowly.
“… Carmaine. I didn’t know you worked here as well.” His voice is gruff when he speaks, sounding indifferent at best- and a hint of surprise at seeing his subordinate. He knows this particular one well; not intimately, just happened to be one who was diligent and loyal (And attentive. And cute. And a little bit more than that).
The young man flusters, and something weird blooms in Strikhor’s chest, foreign to him. “I uh- I own the place, sir.” Carmaine looks away, scratching at the back of his head. “Didn’t mention it ‘cause I didn’t think I have to. I…Thought ‘ya knew…”
Well I didn’t , Strikhor thought, And I wish I did (Among the other things I wish I knew about you) . The afterthought was gone just as quick as it had come. He didn’t know where that came from ( Liar. You do ).
Initially, he had thought it was owned by some newcomer who was either foolish or naive enough to set up shop near the district borders and had enough balls to demand his place in the area and make rules. Thus, never really bothering to visit the place seeing it had done no harm to him nor his territory.
Well, until now.
“-Hello? Uh, boss? Anything you want or what?” A voice shakes him out of his dazed stupor. The calls of slumber are beginning pulling at the edges of his mind and sight.
“I… yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Just get me a bagel and some eggs, and a coffee with three shots of expresso,” he orders in a soft cadence. Not even bothering with his proper facade. He just wanted to eat. And sleep. Sleep, mostly.
“Gotcha boss,” Carmain says, punching in his order. A comfortable beat of silence later, the villain speaks.
“… Alissandre.”
There goes his tact, he guesses. Just right out the bat.
“You say something, boss?”
“Call me Alissandre. We’re not in a professional setting. And I’m in your cafe. I’m not your superior here.”
Alissandre curses himself for mouth. He probably shouldn’t have said that. Maybe. He prays Carmaine doesn’t notice his inner turmoil, but there’s no backing down now. He started to build the bridge, make his bed, and now he could lie in it. This was a bad idea-
Carmaine’s eyebrows shoot up his hairline. Eyes gleaming pleasantly yet scrutinizing, trying to finding motive behind the kind gesture. But he sees none; smile genuine and kind. (-this was NOT a bad idea. Does Carmaine know how domestic he looks in his comfortable getup and that look on his face? So unlike his criminal background. Does he know it suits him?)
“Consider this order on the house then, Alissandre . It’s my café, yeah? Let me treat you some.”
Alissandre is- well, gratified. He has no energy to respond any more than he needs to, but doesn’t want to look rude to his subordinate- or is it friend now? That’s for future him to trouble about. He merely grunts, dips his head, and waits in a secluded booth in the corner by the window.
Only then does he remember, while being sat in the surprisingly comfortable booth- that he was gonna have his order to go.
Oh well. This is fine. He can eat in the comfort of the cafe. No one cares, anyway. It was neutral grounds. (And maybe because he wanted to know the owner a bit more outside of his territory, very different, yet still his loyal subordinate.)
Later, when he dozes off in his seat arms crossed, legs propped up on the opposite seat in front of him, he’ll wake up with a blanket ‘round his shoulders, face wiped clean of bloodstains and smudges.
Held down by the glass, he sees a note:
XXX-XXXX-XXX
‘For when you oughta’ come by the café on days off. You’re always welcome. ’