I wrote this on a bit of a whim because I was wondering how Renji and Byakuya would interact in today's environment (also mainly because I like to envision Renji as a classy waiter for some reason). This one is a short thing, chances are I'm continuing this, but one never knows.
Oh, bonus points if you can guess who Paul is! (Methinks Shane and Emerson are pretty obvious.)
The Sandwich Tower
"Hey, so what can I get for you today?" The question is issued with easy, unwitting charm on the edge of a warm smile.
Emerson blinks, thinking Paul has somehow regained ten years of his life, gotten stark tattoos, dyed his hair red, changed his eye color, as well as completely rearranged his face to look like someone totally different. His brain steps in soon enough to remind him gently that perhaps it would make more sense to arrive at the conclusion that the man in front just was not Paul.
Yes, that would make more sense.
However, that meant change. Emerson frowned, confusion licking briefly at the edge of his mind when he entertains the possibility that he has stepped into the wrong place.
He takes his eyes away from the redhead to look around his favorite cafe, everything still seemed to be there: the worn counter, the taut stretch of Italian leather over the banquettes and the giant mirror with its antique gold frame covering the far left wall. Everything was the same, except for the man in front of him, whose expression was now more confused than welcoming.
Emerson composes himself quickly, shelving away the frown that threatens to emerge as he realizes that his familiar cafe has been tainted by change.
"I'll have an espresso."
The redhead grins and spins to face his back to Emerson, leaning against the counter. Emerson watches the starched white fabric of the redhead's work shirt shift and stretch across his shoulder blades.
"Hey, Paul! The guy you told me about is here!"
The heavy curtain that separates the kitchen from the bar area parts to reveal Paul. Emerson nods in acknowledgement to his friendly greeting as Paul moves towards the coffee machine to prepare Emerson's daily espresso. As the barista is locking the powder in place, Emerson sees him give the redhead a smile before looking to the cake display and indicating Emerson with a slight jerk of his chin.
The redhead turns back to Emerson.
"So, here's an interesting fact. Paul makes great coffee, right," The redhead issues the question, but moves on before Emerson can even open his mouth to issue an answer (not that he was keen to), "and now, did you know, that the same spectacular espresso that he makes is the same espresso I use in my tiramisu? Or perhaps espresso with tiramisu would be too much. Hmm, I made some raspberry jellies today on a whim. Oh, a lemon meringue tart would cut through the richness nicely. So, what will it be?"
Emerson blinks.
"I'm not particularly keen on... dessert." Emerson frowns, feeling the word foreign on the tip of his tongue.
The redhead blinks at him and Emerson takes in the sight of his long lashes arching through the air. The redhead now seems to be staring at him. Emerson calmly stares back and realizes it is an opportunity to realize that the redhead's eyes seem to be as red as his hair, with warm specks of copper nestled near the pupil.
"No dessert? For real? That is wrong, you know. Like kittens pushing old ladies into oncoming traffic. Come on, order something, you don't want to break a universal law, you know."
Emerson blinks. He slides his glance over to Paul, who merely smiles at him. Emerson is sure there's a message behind it. There always is, with Paul. The only one who understands it is the man who picks Paul up every night when he closes the cafe. Emerson knows this because he drives by every night when he is done with his own work, and he sees the pair communicating with pointed laughter and openly secretive looks.
He looks back at the redhead to find that he is still being stared at.
"I like lemon."
The redhead smiles.
-
Dough stretches and shrinks, rolling onto, into itself, urged on by a pair of raw-boned hands. Emerson takes a careful sip of his espresso, watching as Shane - the redhead, Emerson learned his name just a day ago - kneads the dough for this afternoon's cinnamon buns.
It seems like hard work: Emerson can hear the labored breaths Shane is taking and the slight sheen of sweat forming. It could also be contributed to the lack of air conditioning. Emerson himself is feeling the tendrils of heat curling slightly around his neck.
"You look flustered. Wow, I don't think I've seen that before."
Emerson looks up at Shane, wondering how that man can say anything like that when he is covered in sweat now, with lazy drops disappearing into the collar of his uniform. He raises an eyebrow and allows that minute movement speak for itself.
Shane laughs.
Emerson starts, but hides the reaction by busying himself with slicing off a small portion of his Black Forest gâteau.
The dessert is exquisite, as is everything else that Shane creates. A cherry bursts on his tongue and the tartness of the dark red fruit cuts nicely across the richness of the chocolate. Emerson is deeply appreciative of the way Shane choose desserts that are lacking in sweetness for him every time. He does not know how to express his thanks and so he does what he can and finishes the desserts every time.
Emerson has been enjoying Shane's desserts lately, even once forgoing his usual espresso in favor of the redhead's dark chocolate tart with a nice cup of light gunpowder green tea.
"Right, you look too comfortable there. Come on, behind the counter you come."
Emerson looks up at Shane, wondering what on earth is going on and frowns slightly when he realizes that Shane has no right to order him about.
Shane is unflustered.
"Come on! I'm giving you your workout for the day! Move!"
Startled into compliance, Emerson finds himself getting off the seat obediently and sliding behind the marble counter to join Shane at his work station. He leans against the edge, careful not to get any flour onto his favorite Armani pants and shoots Shane an irritated glance.
Shane rolls his eyes.
Emerson changes his glance into a glare.
Shanes laughs again and moves to wash his hands thoroughly at the sink. Then, with a speed that catches Emerson off-guard, Shane moves over to Emerson and thumbs off his cufflinks and slipping them into the pocket of his apron.
"Excuse me."
The icy tone barely has any effect on Shane, who goes as far to cheerfully whistle a merry tune (on purpose, no doubt) while he starts rolling the sleeves of Emerson's shirt up. Emerson moves his other arm out of reach when Shane is done.
The redhead is yet again undaunted and deftly reaches around Emerson to grab his wrist and Emerson gets a face full of red hair and learns that Shane smells like the first sour berries of the season and dark chocolate.
Before he knows it, Emerson's sleeves are crumpled beyond redemption.
Shane flashes a quick, happy grin.
A rush of emotion jolts through Emerson and he grabs a fistful of flour and flicks it at Shane, coating the redhead. Only after he is done does Emerson recognizes the feeling: an impulse.
Emerson sees Paul hovering at the back with a newspaper and thinks the man has the slightest ghost of a smile on his face.
He is not sure though, because by then, Shane has started retaliating and the least Emerson could do was defend himself.