Work Text:
It has been months since Phoenix was last treated to service by his favorite barista. He’s had ample fill of coffee drinks during that time, certainly, in the way that operating a business based primarily on a single product would render it tiresome, so that isn’t what has him picking up a closing shift and summarily shirking every duty on the list. No, what gets him planted on a bar stool, moony-eyed and swinging his legs like a child is the promise of companionship, the secret pleasure of being on the opposite end of his business for once, the experience. The lights are dimmed with the late hour and most of the work stations have been shut down save for one, and an old CD of a piano concerto whispers over the speakers. It’s quiet but not lonely, subdued but not somber, and Phoenix places an order for his favorite barista.
The secret menu is what he calls it: coming to see a certain server rather than requesting a particular drink. It’s a trade secret, a quirky turn of phrase, and his favorite favor to ask. He isn’t the only one to do it, either—he would have to be legally blind to miss a certain regular’s knack for hitting his assistant manager’s shifts, and he used to be a goddamn lawyer.
Given circumstances, it’s been some time since he’s been allowed to indulge for himself, but it is more than worth the wait.
Miles stands on the opposite side of the bar, adorned in his characteristic finery albeit lacking his suit jacket and cravat. Everything in his disposition speaks of control: his shirtsleeves are rolled neatly to his elbows, his movements deft as they are deliberate, the mark of someone for whom this ritual has been reduced to routine. The atmosphere is warm and refined, between the lighting and the swelling piano and the presence of Miles. Phoenix’s eyes follow the steady bob of his exposed forearms as he steams milk for their matching drinks.
As he had the misfortune and alternately good sense to marry a lawyer as well, his scrutiny does not go unnoticed. Miles tosses him a curious sideways glance, to which Phoenix smiles sheepishly.
“I really missed you,” he offers by way of explanation, though he hardly sounds apologetic about it.
Miles rolls his eyes. “You missed having someone willing to make a coffee drink for you, for a change?”
“Nah,” Phoenix waves a dismissive hand. “I could have Apollo do that anytime. I missed you.”
In the silence that Phoenix has learned over the years does not necessarily indicate any sort of resignation on Miles’s part, Miles pours out the steamed milk into their mugs. Phoenix’s swirls with an impressive variety of colors before settling into a surface of pale cream foam, whereas Miles’s remains appropriately muted. He spoons the remaining foam onto the top of his own drink before setting the milk pitcher aside. Phoenix hums appreciatively when his drink is placed in front of him, wrapping his palms around the warm ceramic and sighing.
Phoenix’s eyes draw up from his beverage, however, being far more interested in the actual subject of his frivolous order. If Miles feels the intensity of his gaze, he is unruffled by it as he sips his own drink.
(It’s been years, and still Phoenix wonders how he can possibly bear it so hot.)
“You’re so cute,” Phoenix sighs with a weight of relief, as if the thought has been nagging at him for some time. Really, it feels like a guilty pleasure in and of itself, merely to be able to tell Miles in person after months of only phone and video calls.
To this, Miles raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.
Phoenix inclines his head slightly, his smile curving into a smirk. “Why won’t you come work for me? You would make such a gorgeous barista.”
Miles takes another thoughtful sip of his drink. “I am quite busy. I will pass.”
And besides, you only make drinks for me, Phoenix selfishly allows himself to think. That’s the beauty of the secret menu.
“On the other hand,” Miles places his mug on the counter in favor of lacing his fingers together. “Why don’t you come work for me?”
The drink stops halfway to Phoenix’s mouth. He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I have no interest in a food service career. However, you do have an interest in a law career, do you not?” Miles’s tone is teasing, like he already knows his answer.
Phoenix huffs. “I was disbarred, Miles. Getting certified after a screw-up like that isn’t easy.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” Miles says. “You knew I would want to discuss this with you upon my return, and you did place your order on the secret menu, after all.” The rim of his mug obscures the better part of Miles’s countenance, but there is no mistaking the dancing light in his eyes. Miles knows exactly when the advantage is his, he always does. Even in his unfavorable position, however, there is a happy flutter in Phoenix’s stomach.
“Yeah, and I was kinda hoping for some sexy librarian aesthetic, not a job interview,” Phoenix grumbles. He directs his pout down at his drink.
“What is the purpose of an interview if you already have the job?” Miles asks. Still, he holds the unknown answer, dangling it tantalizingly close.
Phoenix frowns. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me, seeing as we are sitting in the coffee shop that I own, where the most legal work I do is pasting the union regulations on the wall.”
Miles tilts his head, considering. He pushes his mug forward so it sits beside Phoenix’s, and then moves around the bar to take the stool to match. Phoenix watches him curiously.
“There are some people at the Bar Association who owe me a few… favors,” Miles says slowly, not quite meeting Phoenix’s eyes, “and naturally, my new title does bear a certain weight. It is no guarantee, and you will certainly have to study and prove yourself accordingly, but I have made tentative arrangements for you to retake the bar and become certified again.” He draws a careful breath. “Of course, you will be given some time to prepare, but the appointment cannot be put off for terribly long—”
“Miles!” Phoenix is up on his feet, grabbing Miles by the shirtfront and hauling him off of his own stool, effectively ending his explanation. They are close, a mere breath apart, and indeed Miles’s stops. “What the hell are you doing?”
Wide-eyed and duly startled, Miles’s mouth moves emptily, stumbling over bits of reasoning and feeble appeals. Mercifully, Phoenix is not finished: “You can’t just come waltzing back into the country two weeks early saying you pulled strings so I can take my bar exam and stand there in your fancy clothes in my coffee shop—how can you possibly be like this?”
Phoenix’s eyes dart back and forth across Miles’s face, unraveling each and every detail. Miles, for his part, remains mute.
After one last moment of intense deliberation, Phoenix says lowly, “I want to kiss you so badly right now.”
Miles opens his mouth to reply, only to find himself laughing, laughing and he sounds equal parts relieved, jubilant and proud. He shifts to push their drinks out of harm’s way with an unconcerned forearm, and then places his hands over Phoenix’s. “And I haven’t the faintest idea of what’s stopping you,” he smiles.