That ugly orange apron. The first time Bob saw Bart wear his work clothes in the café, it reminded him of jail, years in those oppressive clothes wondering what unfair act of fate had brought him there. That sickly bright shade of orange always garnered judgemental or scared looks from strangers when he had the displeasure of working outside the prison. The first thing Bob did when he was set free was to buy new sets of clothes, formal, casual, elegant, one for every occasion. Anything to finally blend into a society that tried its best to dismiss his very existence.
But watching Bart wearing his work apron, it only reminded him of the man inside it. His old nemesis had come a long way, both in his job and in his life - he looked more confident, handled his work better, joked around with customers, he even got a few tips from time to time. Of course, Bob was the customer who would tip him every time. He did not know why he even started to in the first place. Perhaps he wanted Bart to think of him in a positive light, or he hoped to share something with him that only they would know about.
It wasn't always easy to escape work for a few minutes outside the library, but seeing Bart get all flustered by his mere presence was absolutely worth it. Bob always looked forward to that look of recognition whenever he noticed he was there. His blue eyes got slightly wider for a split second, followed by a suppressed smile, then sometimes a blush he probably hoped Bob wouldn't notice. But he did notice, everytime.
Barely over a day ago, Bart had been with him, in his house, sleeping in his bed between two rounds of much-anticipated fornication. Drinking the coffee the blond barista had made him, Bob took great joy in remembering that very same man panting underneath him, naked, desperate for his touch. "I love it, being your plaything," the words echoed in Bob's mind, a simple sentence that had comforted him in Bart's compliance while he kept him in his control. A sentence that did wonders to get him started any time he recalled it. How odd that they would end up in that sort of relationship, Bob thought. Or perhaps it made sense; as mortal enemies he only strived to see terror in those blue eyes, now he revelled in seeing the excited glee in them whenever they were alone together and Bart was eager for whatever he would do to him. An odd kink on both sides, an unexpected match that fit so well the two former enemies simply couldn't get enough of eachother.
He had always figured that Bart was the type to go from one woman to another, ditching them as soon as he grew bored of them. In a way, he had apparently been right about that, but it didn't seem to be good enough for Bart. For the time being he was, as Bob had tactfully put it, all his.
He found himself staring at him the next day, occasionally catching his eyes, causing Bart to forget what he was doing. He kept a close eye on him over his cup, ever careful not to be too obvious, watching him dart around the large room with various orders. The café was starting to get crowded, a bitter cue for Bob to leave soon and get back to work, leaving the highlight of his day behind him. He noticed that Bart was casually talking with another young man, around his age, the type that probably turned some heads around on the street. They appeared to be getting along well, laughing and talking, and Bart seemed to be getting compliments on his service. Bob realized he was clenching his cup when the hot temperature sent the signal to his brain to take his hands off. He set the cup down and inhaled deeply. For some reason, he felt his heart pounding angrily every time his ex-nemesis became familiar with a customer or two. It might be a joke Bart said, or the way the person complimented his work, but Bob found he hated it.
He rubbed his temples, fear and realization slowly setting in in his mind, and started laughing quietly. Jealousy was starting to get to him. How childish on his part. He did not own Bart. No matter what Bob had said to him that night and how Bart responded. They were not even dating, per se, there was no agreement. Only non-committing sexual activities during which, in his own little fantasy, Bart belonged to him, and to him only.
"What's so funny?" A voice pulled him from his thoughts. He lifted his head to see that Bart was standing next to him with a puzzled expression on his face.
"I was simply wondering how many customers you usually get in bed with, that's all," he answered casually, finishing up the last drops of his coffee and setting his cup down.
Bart threw him a shocked glare, his face red as a tomato - whether it was out of anger or embarrassment, Bob couldn't really tell – and turned his head around in panic to check if anyone had caught on. But the other customers present at this time were out of earshot, and his colleague was at the counter, too busy minding her own business.
"You're kidding, right?" He whispered hastily. "It's just you, who do you think I am?"
Bob decided not to reply. He was still pondering that to himself, a question that demanded some time to answer. "Very well, then. Forget it," he shrugged innocently, amused by his flustered reaction.
"Fuck you," Bart retorted when he realized he'd just jumped right into that. "By the way, I think you owe me a few days' worth of tips," he joked with a large grin as he stretched his hand out with his palm up.
Bob laughed, almost offended at his insolence, and slowly grazed his fingers with his to close his hand. "Consider it paid in full over our little... weekend together."
"God, Bob..." Bart hissed awkwardly at the touch. He leaned in to pick up the empty cup in front of Bob and murmured mockingly. "And you want me to behave? When are you gonna punish me, by the way?"
Bart's face was so close, he could grab it with his two hands and kiss him right then and there, pinning him to the table to indulge him that instant in the middle of the coffeeshop. He instead got up to his feet, towering over the disobedient brat who couldn't seem to wait for his sanction. "When you least expect it, Bart."
He left a twenty-dollar bill on the table, satisfied that his answer made Bart gulp, and just left, trying his best to ignore the little voice in his head that demanded he picked him up on his shoulder to bring him home.